


Antes

by laratoncita



Series: To Live & Die in LA [4]
Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Domestic Violence, Drug Dealing, F/M, Gangs, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sexual Harassment, Slice of Life, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-05-01 20:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19184770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Maybe this is a love story.





	1. may.

**Author's Note:**

> i might be abroad but i am ALWAYS on my bullshit. quote from sandra cisneros' "one last poem for richard" which i've probably used in another fic but idc. 
> 
> important notes: attitudes expressed by characters are by no means correct or representative of my own opinions. pls heed warnings and note that several characters express misogynistic, homophobic, and/or racist views throughout this work.

there should be stars for great wars  
like ours. there ought to be awards  
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.

* * *

“Where you staying now, Claudis?”

“Araceli’s letting me crash with her,” Claudia says. They’re sitting at Sonic’s, eating burgers that Oscar wouldn’t let her pay for. She ordered extra fries and a large milkshake to spite him, except now it means they’re sharing, and every time their fingers brush she can’t help but smile.

Oscar chews on the straw thoughtfully. She looks at him pointedly, rolls her eyes when all he does is grin. He says, instead of apologizing, “We never did anything for your birthday. Or for graduation.”

“Does today not count?” she asks, motioning between the two of them with a sandwich in hand. She punctuates it by taking a massive bite, returning his unimpressed stare.

“This ain’t a real restaurant,” he says, because of course that’s what’s important here. They haven’t seen each other in two weeks—the start of summer always means there’s more bullshit than usual in Freeridge, and Claudia had finals and then graduation to worry about, besides the whole aging out thing. She’s never been more grateful for being a May baby. She somehow managed to split her focus between school and figuring everything else out evenly, meaning she didn’t get anything below a B to finish out her high school career and packed her meager belongings without any help from her foster parents. Moved out on a Tuesday and slept at whatever shelter would let her stay for a few days before finally sucking it up and heading to the church Father Carlos was in charge of. Stayed there until Araceli came through.

The only reason she’s even staying with her is because her folks left for Mexico a few days after graduation, after they threw their only daughter a graduation party. Her parents don’t much like Salvis, even if Araceli stays arguing with them over it. Her brother lives over in Riverside, where he’s been in manufacturing for years. A lot of their folks are down in Mexicali, and every summer and winter finds their folks leaving for a few weeks to see them. Araceli’s taking summer courses, though, which means she gets the house to herself. By extension, Claudia has until July 1st to find a place to live and stack the money she needs to pay for it. She’s not totally sure she’s going to manage it, but on the flipside—

“You know you can just stay with me, right?” Oscar says, instead of arguing with her over celebrating her graduation. He’s real proud of her, for a lot of reasons, not least of which being that _he_ dropped out the first month of junior year. He likes to joke it’s the only time he and his mother have ever agreed on anything. Claudia doesn’t find it half as funny as he does.

The issue of her moving in is a bit more touchy. She’s not a stranger to crashing at his place, did so plenty of times even before Penelope Diaz left. Spent most of winter and spring break with him, even, hanging out with Cesar while Oscar was out doing whatever Santo business needed to get done. She knows what kind of business it is, but for her own sanity she ignores most of it. It’s a little harder, now that Oscar has that massive cross inked across his neck, but. She kind of likes the way it looks, not that she’ll admit it. (The number of times she’s bitten him there, mid-coitus, since it healed is an obvious enough clue).

But moving into a known Santo meeting spot? Worse, being a woman there? Claudia hasn’t admitted it to Oscar, but she’s pretty sure only crackheads and kids who have no other option would want to stay around fulltime. Unfortunately she’s one of the latter right now. Something tells her, too, that moving in only long enough to save up for an apartment might go over badly. Fact of the matter is, though, that she needs her own space. Doesn’t matter if it’s with a couple roommates. Had a few foster homes, and even when her mom was still alive they apartment hopped more often than not. It’s been almost six years to the day since she died. Claudia wonders, every day, if she’s in a spot her mom would be proud of.

Oscar…Claudia loves him. Loves him like she’s only loved her mother, maybe, wholeheartedly and without any sense of salvation. Sometimes he looks at her and it’s like the whole world is right there in between them. But she tries to be realistic. He’s got a teardrop tattoo that means something serious. The Santo cross isn’t just a flashy image. He’s been dealing full-time since he dropped out of school and lately it seems like he’s been given some new responsibilities. Claudia knows what that means. Her man’s a career criminal. She knew that since the day he dropped out, the same day she admitted to herself (and him) that she wanted him. The memory of that first kiss still makes her toes curl.

Maybe she’s lucky in that sense. They’ve known each other so long they were friends before sex made things complicated. And really, it’s not all that complicated. They don’t say it much but Claudia knows he loves her as much as she loves him. Maybe even more. _That_ thought scares her most. Oscar would rather she to move in, probably wants to play house to her, maybe because of Cesar and for sure because he just _wants_ her that badly. They’ve been dating a year and a half; sometimes he’ll start to say something and then catch himself. Even if it’s just the two of them in bed or driving around or at the grocery store arguing over what meat to buy.

It would be easier to move in. But.

“Ay, Oscar,” she says, “I can’t do that to Cesar. He needs stability.”

“You planning on running off?” he asks, eyebrow raised. Claudia takes another bite of burger to avoid answering right away.

“I’m gonna transfer eventually,” she says, “but. Ya sabés, I need my own _space_. And none of your Santos like me, anyway.”

He twitches. “What?”

“Come on,” she says, flat, and takes a sip of milkshake. Hands it back to Oscar after. “I _know_ most of them don’t like Salvis, which is dumb as hell, you know, la Oveja’s from San Salvador and Chilango is half.”

“Aw, but his mom is from D.F.”

“He’s half,” she says a little louder than she needs to be. He raises both eyebrows this time. She gets passionate about El Salvador, sue her. “He uses vos!”

“Only with you.”

“’Cause none of you _Chicanos_ use it.” She’s not pouting, even if the way Oscar rubs his thumb against her lower lip argues otherwise.

“None of us call ourselves Chicano, nena,” he says, and kisses her like he thinks it’s cute. His facial hair is raspy. He’s lucky she likes him. Says, after, “You can stay with me just while you find an apartment, vale?”

“I was planning to,” she says, balling up the paper wrapper her burger came in and tucking it into a cupholder. “Kiss me again.”

Oscar laughs, but he listens anyway.

* * *

Cesar stays running around Freeridge by himself. He thinks he’s real grown, but it drives Claudia crazy.

“You telling me you didn’t run around like that when you was a shorty?” Oscar asks her. She’s fixing her hair in the passenger seat, windows rolled down like they weren’t fogged up half an hour before. The elementary school won’t let out for another twenty minutes, so there’s no rush to get there in time to pick Cesar up.

“I was my mom’s only kid,” she says, glancing at him. Oscar has one hand on her thigh, squeezes every now and then like he needs to remind her he’s there. “She survived the war, hombre, you think she was gonna let me run around como loca?”

“Shit, you ended up crazy anyway,” he laughs like he’s funny. She rolls her eyes, leans back into her seat and curls her fingers over his. “You run with Santos, baby.”

“I run with _you_ ,” she corrects, “we on our way to pick up Cesar from school, what, you think that’s some gangsta shit o qué?”

“It is,” he says, still grinning, and Claudia reaches out to poke at his dimple. Watches him like she always does.

“You’re soft,” she tells him, and he grabs her hand, laces their fingers on the console between them.

“That ain’t what you was saying earlier,” he says, “what was it? Ay, _Oscar_ —”

“Ya,” she says, feeling her face go hot, “don’t start.”

“We got time for a quickie,” he says, straight-faced, and starts laughing when she goes _Oh, my God, shut up!_ , “okay, no, we don’t, pero—”

“You’re _so_ annoying,” she says. Says it at least once every time he comes by to pick her up. Twice when he’s being worse than usual. He tends to pay her back by pinning her to the nearest surface and getting her worked up again.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, bringing their hands up to kiss the back of hers, “start looking for parking, nena, you know some’a these moms be acting up.”

“Just the white ones,” she says, “oh, and Geny Martinez.”

“Yo, me _odia_ ,” he says, “but I swear to God, she’s the craziest broad in Freeridge, and you _met_ my mom.”

“Oscar,” she says, half-scolding. Penelope Diaz had a lot of demons, not that it excuses how badly Oscar and Cesar ended up because of them. She’s been gone six or seven months; left in November, before Oscar’s eighteenth. Cesar didn’t even notice until it was Thanksgiving. Oscar dealt with it badly. Claudia had to tape up his pinkie and ring finger, dabbed iodine onto his raw knuckles. Told him it counted as part of his birthday present and got him a new pair of shoes anyway.

“I’m right,” he says, like she said otherwise. Parks in their usual spot, across the street from the school, and climbs out once Claudia does. They lean against the bumper like they always do when Claudia comes with to pick up Cesar. She had early release all year, and on days where she wasn’t at work at the church Oscar would pick her up and they’d go chill at the park, waiting for school to let out. He used to try and convince her to fuck in one of the slides, had her calling him all sorts of names while he laughed. He’s so annoying.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” she warns as he tugs her into the V of his legs, hands on her hips.

He grins. “What makes you think I can’t?”

“We _stay_ screwing in your car,” she says, “and we’re on school property, Oscar, por Dios.”

“Shit, we could have gone home,” he says, “why did we fuck in the backseat again?”

Claudia laughs, wraps her arms around his neck. “We’re dumb.”

“Speak for yourself,” he says, and kisses her while the bell rings.

They’re still kissing when Cesar finds them. He makes a gagging noise, and Claudia pulls away with a giggle.

“Hi baby,” she says, grinning helplessly when she sees his face is all screwed up.

“We’re at _school_ ,” he says, eyebrows scrunched together like furry little caterpillars.

“So?” Oscar says, his arms still around her, “Es mi mujer, compa, I can kiss her wherever. Watch.”

“Oscar—” he dips her before she can finish, mouth on hers to keep her from yelling at him. She’s back up in seconds, feeling wobbly, hands up to catch herself on something. Cesar doesn’t seem amused.

“You guys are gross.”

“This is school property,” she says to Oscar again, like they weren’t just making out in front of the elementary school, and then offers Cesar a hug he accepts despite their misbehavior. “How was school?”

“Okay,” he says, “we get to go to the zoo on Friday.”

“That’s fun!” she says, and gets him buckled in the middle seat so they can stay talking on the drive home. “Who’s gonna chaperone?”

“Mrs. Martinez,” he says, and Oscar doesn’t quite manage to turn his groan into a cough.

He pretends to clear his throat. “Yeah? Monse’s dad outta town?”

“Yeah,” Cesar says, and when Claudia turns her head to look at him he’s kicking his feet a little. Blue Adidas. One thing’s for sure: Oscar keeps him dressed real cute. “But Jamal’s mom is coming too.”

“She’s cool,” Oscar says, like that’s the best thing a mom can be, and Claudia refrains from rolling her eyes. He should have offered to go with, probably, but there’s no way in hell they’re letting a dude with a Santos tattoo on a bus full of kids, even if one of them is his. She would have gone but she’s not related, and her and Cesar don’t look alike at all. She’s too dark, and her eyes give her away, besides. Oscar asks, “You hungry, Lil’ Spooky?”

Cesar perks up. “Can we get ice cream?”

“That’s not what I asked,” Oscar says, but gives in right away like he always does. “Mickey D’s sundae?”

“Can I get extra fudge?”

“Oh my God,” Claudia mutters, even as Oscar says yes.

* * *

She ends up staying the night, even if she pretends to put up a fight.

“Pa’ qué,” she says, even while he tucks her into bed like she’s Cesar. Nothing can get in the way of the kid’s bedtime routine, not that Oscar’s giving her quite the same treatment. He’s rolled her up in a sheet more than once, mostly because he thinks it’s funny when he gets her good and she’s still stuck even after he’s gone to the bathroom. “’S not like I’m getting any.”

“Cabrona,” Oscar says, tucking the sheet more securely under her ankles. He’s down to a pair of basketball shorts and Claudia wants him, same as always. “You want the baby to walk in on us?”

“I’m not that loud, first of all,” she says, pushing her fists up a little to see if he’s actually trapped her this time, “second, I have a place to stay.”

“You wanna sleep in Araceli’s bed? How many boyfriends she have this year?”

“Two,” she says, grinning when her arms come free right away. She pouts when he pins her again, not that she’s putting up any kind of struggle. “I don’t think she’s dumb enough to screw around in her parents’ house, querido.”

He gives her the same unimpressed look Cesar had after school. She bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“She’s repeating gym this summer.”

“Shh, her folks are pretending that’s not true. They threw her a party, even.”

“Fucking Araceli.”

“Be nice,” Claudia says, “she’s the only one’a my friends who likes you.”

“She’s your only friend.”

“Ouch,” she says, “do you and Cesar not count?”

“I’m your man, nena,” he says, “and Cesar is nine years old.”

“He’s my buddy.”

“Loca,” Oscar says, fondly, and then ducks out into the hallway. She has three minutes to wiggle out of here before he comes back and lies on top of her even though he _knows_ it makes her hot in a non-sexy way.

She stays over often enough that moving in wouldn’t make a huge difference. Now that school’s out all she really does is work, and even with her two jobs it doesn’t add up to more than forty a week. It would probably be nice for Cesar, too, to have another person to take care of him.

Oscar does his best. He’s _always_ done his best, and Claudia’s seen it herself for years. Maybe not when they first met, both of them still kids and with different chips on their shoulders, but all throughout high school, at least, since they’ve been friends, it’s been obvious. Forget any of that Santo shit. Oscar lives for Cesar. It’s just a fact.

By the time Oscar gets back she’s gotten her arms free; pulls her legs up as best as she can when he reaches for her again. It wouldn’t be bad, she thinks, to have this every night.

He tells her, “I’m letting you _out_.”

“Last time you said that you threw me on the couch,” she says, and he grins at the memory.

“That was a good one.”

“No it wasn’t,” she says, and finally gets the bedsheet off her. “I dunno how you can sleep under a cover when it’s this hot out.”

“Es una sábana,” he says, and moves to turn off the light, “it’s like sleeping under nothing.”

“Then why use it?”

“You can sleep without a blanket?”

“I can sleep anywhere,” she says. She’s gotten good at couch hopping and getting comfortable on shitty beds. Once, the summer before they started high school, Oscar found her curled up underneath a bench at the park sometime after midnight. He was out with the Santos and she was avoiding her foster mom’s brother. That was the first time she slept in his bed, not that they shared it. “You’re practically naked, anyway.”

He looks down at himself, and Claudia gives herself a moment to admire the view. When he looks up he says, “Nena, this isn’t close to naked.”

“Are you wearing underwear?”

“Yes.”

He’s got her this time. “Fine. Get in bed.”

“Watch your hands, baby,” he says, even as he slides in next to her and tugs her close, “eres como un pulpo.”

“I know you didn’t just call me an octopus.”

“Prove me wrong,” he says against the back of her neck, and she pushes her hips back just to spite him. _So annoying_. “See?”

She holds a hand up, wiggles her fingers. “Aquí están.”

“Dices que _I’m_ annoying?” he says, and takes her hand in his. He presses a kiss to her shoulder; she’s wearing an oversized t-shirt as pajamas, her usual outfit when she stays over. “Whatchu want for breakfast?”

“French toast,” she says, knowing he’ll wake up early to make enough for the three of them, “what time we dropping Cesar off?”

“I’ll take him,” he says, “you got work, don’t you?”

“At noon.” She’s part-time at the church one day during the week and on weekends, works as a nanny over in Brentwood two days a week, depending on the family’s schedule. The kid’s barely two months old, so mostly she hangs out watching TV or reading while she’s over there, the house huge and empty and pristine like something out of a magazine.

She’d hate to live there, even if she’d kill for their bathroom; the shower looks like something from the future. It’s gorgeous. There’s another nanny who works Thursday and Friday; Claudia’s there Tuesday and Wednesday. They pay her fifty bucks a day, sometimes more. Easy money.

She’s not making nearly enough for her own apartment, sure, but she’s got decent savings. She could swing a security deposit and first month’s rent as is. Maybe at the end of the month she’ll be able to afford two months’. Her semester fees are due in August, and she’s budgeting, and Claudia knows she’ll be alright if she just moves in with Oscar but. That’s a problem for her to solve in the morning.

“I can take you.”

“Thanks,” she says, squeezing his hand a little. “I gotta head to Araceli’s after. Laundry.”

“A’right,” he says. Pulls her closer and they sleep.


	2. june.

“Ya,” Claudia says, throwing her hands up. She’s got her shitty laptop propped on the coffee table, about a dozen tabs open, and her ass hurts from sitting on the floor for so long. Oscar’s in the middle of giving her two French braids, and he won’t stop vetoing the apartments she’s looking at. She’s about to catch a case.

“That one’s not even in Freeridge,” he says, and redoes the braid he’s working on. He’s on try number three.

“It’s two blocks south,” she says, “it’s a fifteen minute drive from here, and I can take the bus to class _and_ work.”

“You staying out in Brentwood once classes start?”

“I should _move_ to Brentwood,” she mutters, and then, because she knows Oscar’s about to start talking shit, “ _don’t_.”

He sniffs. She can imagine the purse of his mouth. He and Cesar are both prone to pouting when they don’t get their way. On a nine-year-old it’s cute; on a Santo? Claudia deserves a medal, and she stays reminding Oscar that it’s true. He says, “There’s gotta be decent places nearby.”

“Your bedroom doesn’t count,” she says.

“You sure about that?” he says, and tilts her head back to press a kiss to her eyebrow. Despite herself, she smiles. “You gotta find roommates for most’a these, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, scrolling through one of the websites again. She clicks on a studio option and nearly gags. Tries one-bedroom and it’s only slightly better. “Querido,” she says, “chulito mío.”

“I know it’s serious when you start calling me chero,” he says, “so until then…”

“Oscar,” she says, “baby, pa’ qué nos quedamos aquí? We could find a two-bedroom easy. Rent’s cheap over in La Avenida.”

“Lots of Salvadorans there. You homesick?”

“I was born here, asshole,” she says, and clicks on a two-bedroom, $1500 a month. “Whatchu think?”

“You got Avenida money?”

“We can save up,” she says, “my mom had a comadre out there back in the day.”

“She still there?”

“Dunno.” Claudia chews on her thumbnail. She never could manage to keep her nails long. Her mom had beautiful hands. Despite the work she had as a maid and as a dishwasher at some bougie restaurant downtown, she always kept her nails real pretty. Used to have them that almond shape that made them look fake, favored an almost salmon shade of pink. Did her nails once a week, at least, used to do Claudia’s toenails, both of them walking around with separators to keep from smudging the polish. Claudia misses her so suddenly it takes her breath away.

“La Avenida’s nice,” Oscar finally says, when Claudia’s clearly been quite for too long. He’s finally finished with the braids.

She swipes her fingers under her eyes, says, “Yeah, it is,” and clicks x on the browser. Says, “I’m not gonna find any nice ones right now. I been checking every day.”

“Some nice ones’ll pop up,” he says, like he knows, and then wraps his arms around her best as he can, her on the floor and him on the couch. He kisses her ear and just holds her. “Don’t worry. You got three weeks still. And here, you know. Cuando quieras.”

“I know.” Cesar’s in his room getting ready for bed. Tomorrow’s his last day of school, and he’s _very_ excited about it being Field Day. Claudia remembers those days vaguely, remembers, too, some blurry image of her mother coming by to pick her up after. That was back when they lived in Pico Union, she’s pretty sure. They bounced around Vermont Avenue like no one’s business, ended up in Freeridge only after her mom got sick and couldn’t afford any better. “You busy tomorrow?”

He hesitates. Lets go of her, and she twists to look up at him better, leaning up against his knee. He rubs his jaw. “After I take you to work, yeah.”

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll see you this weekend though?”

“I can pick you up after.”

“Nah, I don’t want you driving around,” she says, “’sides, Araceli was talking ‘bout making her mom’s _mole_ today. That shit is so good.”

“Mine’s better,” he says, reaching out to smooth her hair back. “I’ll make you some for dinner.”

“Oscar,” she says, almost laughing, and reaches up to curl her fingers around his wrist.

He cups her face with both hands, says, “C’mere,” and pulls her up onto the couch with him, her legs thrown over his and her face tucked into his neck. “Why you stressing?”

“Hombre, I’m _homeless_ ,” she says.

“No, you’re not,” he says, “not really. You always got a spot with me.”

This isn’t her house, she wants to say. Says, instead, “I don’t like not knowing where I’m gonna be in a month. Or two, or—or however many, sabés? Makes me feel, no sé, mareada.”

“You been out on the ocean?” he asks.

“Nah,” she says, “we did some touristy shit, once, up in Santa Barbara. Let us go on a boat, but it wasn’t moving. Just walking on it felt weird.”

“We should go to the beach one’a these days,” he says, but the way he says it makes it seem wholly unconnected to anything they’re saying. Even the ocean question was the slightest bit off. His voice sounds different.

“Yeah,” she says, instead of commenting on the drive and the money they’ll need to buy Cesar new swim trunks and how they’ll need to take enough food for lunch and dinner to really make it worth it. She hasn’t gone to the beach in ages. Misses how small it makes her feel. The taste of saltwater when she loses her breath, her mother a flash of golden-brown on the beach and her hands—beautiful hands, always—cold against her skin as she taught her how to swim.

She wonders what kind of memories Oscar has of the beach.

“You tired?”

“Nah,” she says, and pulls back a little, puts her arms around him and looks at him carefully. Watches him watch her, catalogues the face she knows so well but still finds herself staring at when he looks at her a certain way.

It’s hard to wrap her head around it, sometimes, meeting him in seventh grade and getting caught up in his orbit not two years later. It makes Claudia feel old and young all at the same time, like she’s simultaneously stuck in a moment and experiencing everything at once. She wants to ask him if he feels this way, too. Not because of her but because of what their lives look like. Because of what Freeridge has done to them.

She taps that little tear tattoo. Says, “C’mon. The baby’s gotta go to bed,” and climbs off him and the couch.

* * *

Sunday night has him swinging by Araceli’s, claiming he misses Claudia.

“It’s been ages since we last seen you,” Oscar says, leaning up against the doorway, flashing that annoying ass smile her way. It’s been three days at most.

“Is that Oscar’s punk-ass?” Araceli shouts from the kitchen, and he grimaces.

“Who’s asking, vieja?” he calls to her, and out she comes, wagging her fingers at him like she’s someone’s tía about to tell him not to talk to her like that.

Araceli’s a little taller than Claudia, hair bleached to a blonde that looks surprisingly good with her skin tone, though maybe that’s just because Claudia knows she’d look ridiculous with hair any lighter than a dark brown. She has two moles to the right side of her mouth that her mom and aunts all fawn over, and eyelashes she’s only ever seen on undeserving boys. Her and Oscar get along well even if Oscar’ll never admit it, and it’s probably because she, like Claudia, knows he’s full of shit half the time.

She has a washcloth over one shoulder, the front of her pink tank-top a little damp from washing dishes. She scowls, jokingly, at Oscar when she sees him.

“Where’s Cesar?” she says, moving Oscar out of the way. Cesar waves from his place in the back seat of Oscar’s car, and she smiles brightly for a split-second before smacking the back of her hand against Oscar’s chest. He looks a little outraged. “Why you ain’t bring him by?”

“We friends now, Herrera?” he asks, eyebrow cocked up when he wants to act smart.

“ _Des_ afortunadamente,” she says, the word slipping from her mouth like a waterfall, “get the baby out, you malandro, he looks skinny.”

“He’s nine years old,” Oscar says, clearly aware he’s lost this argument already, “he eats all fucking day.”

“You a grown ass man,” Araceli says, “and you wanna argue with _me_? About _kids_? How long I been nannying for them white bitches over in Brentwood, Claudi?”

“Years,” Claudia says, a well-rehearsed bit between the two of them.

“Who got you a job with the with the Venturas?”

“You did,” she answers, almost a sigh, even as she tries her best not to grin at the sour look on Oscar’s face.

“And _who_ ,” she says, poking her index finger—sharp, acrylic, somehow not a risk to herself or the kids she watches—against Oscar’s chest, “is about to make sure my baby gets fed right today?”

“Oh, he’s _your_ baby now, huh?” Oscar says, straightening up from his slouch. He calls out, “Cesar, c’mon, Araceli made dinner,” and then says to Araceli, “you ain’t had to get a nine year old to sleep in the middle of a tantrum, huh?”

“Why you making him mad?” she says, and then to Cesar as he reaches them, “ay, mi vida, where have you been!”

“Hi Araceli,” he says, shyly, like he hasn’t known Araceli as long as he’s known Claudia. He’s smiling though. Makes Claudia’s heart melt, Oscar’s too, all while Araceli—big hips and tetas, attitude like a mom with four or five kids already instead of however many boyfriends she’s had in the last year—gets Cesar into the house before them. She’s asking him about his summer plans.

“Summer _plans_?” Oscar says, giving Claudia an incredulous look. She purses her mouth to keep from laughing. Him and Araceli together are better entertainment than any novela on TV. “Ese chiquillo mocoso, he’s unemployed, he’s four feet tall—”

“Unemployed?” Claudia says, “Oscar, favor de Dios—”

“He has _no_ money, trust me, I be checking—”

“Are you coming in or not?” Araceli yells, and Claudia gives in and laughs. Takes Oscar’s hand in hers and drags him inside.

“I’m surprised you ain’t living like salvajes over here,” he says as they reach the kitchen, where Araceli’s already gotten a plate served for Cesar. The whole place smells like mole, leftover because there’s no way to cook it unless it’s a big batch—at least that’s what Araceli says. Oscar would probably argue with her just because he can, but Claudia’s not an expert on Mexican cuisine, despite how long Oscar’s been cooking for her. She appreciates it, though, let no one suggest otherwise.

Claudia made the rice, though, fried and with vegetables like how her mom used to make it for them. Oscar says it’s his favorite food, which is a nice sentiment even if Claudia doesn’t believe him at all.

“Just ‘cause you Santos is convinced that you’re all el mero mero don’t mean I don’t know better,” Araceli says, handing a plate to Claudia and nudging her into the seat opposite Cesar. She knows better than to sit next to Oscar; they once started a food fight, freshman year, when Oscar first started talking to Claudia. “I keep a clean house, güey, even when my folks ain’t around. Agua o jugo, Cesar? I have Jumex.”

“What kind?” he says, already digging into his food. Claudia asks if he’s washed his hands and he jumps up to do so, Oscar shaking his head and fixing his own plate while he and Araceli go back and forth about what a clean house really looks like. Probably Claudia should have fixed it for him, but the last time she did he got a weird look on his face like he was remembering something his mom might’ve done. Maybe his dad, even.

She doesn’t quite feel like the type of girl who can be taken home, sometimes, even if Oscar _has_ , all the time, and never once made it seem like she needed to be picking up after him or otherwise providing some sort of maternal care. She’s seen some of Araceli’s boyfriends expect it, after all. Those usually get kicked to the curb, quick, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a behavior she hasn’t seen elsewhere. Oscar’s not like that, though. Likes cooking for her and going grocery shopping, all three of them together, and spending Sundays scrubbing down the whole house with old house mixtapes playing on that old ass stereo he keeps under the bed.

Oscar’s domestic as _fuck_. His boys calling him Spooky makes her laugh. The boys themselves, though? She’s not a huge fan.

* * *

La Oveja might be from San Salvador, but that doesn’t mean Claudia likes him much. Chilango’s cooler, but he’s on house arrest right now, and Claudia hasn’t had time to go hang out with his sister to see how he’s doing. La Oveja, meanwhile, does stop by Oscar’s place sometimes, and watches her a little too closely when Oscar’s not around.

Oscar’s usually around if she is. They’ll drive around just the two of them or hang out with Cesar, take him to the park or the pool where they can keep an eye on him and pretend at almost being a family. Claudia doesn’t want to get ahead of herself, but she can see them doing this forever and it doesn’t bother her. Not really. Yeah, she wants them all out of Freeridge, wants Oscar to stop putting himself at risk, but—

She gets it, almost. It’s all he’s known. It’s all he could really do, barely a kid himself when his pops left and his mom strung out for years before and after. Most of their cousins run around with the Santos, too, and just the Diaz name is enough to get the Prophets’ attention. Christ, what else was there really to do?

Claudia wonders what it might be like, if they had a girl around to have to take care of, and finds herself grateful. Oscar’s thrown fists at _Santos_ for shit they’ve said to her, and she knows he’d about lose his mind if there was a sister he had to look after. Even taking care of Cesar is a sort of tightrope walk, caught between trying to keep his childhood safe as it can be and wondering if he really _is_ going to grow up to be Lil’ Spooky. She doesn’t want that for him any more than she wants Oscar to be Spooky.

She’s at home with Cesar today, working on a sopa de fideo that she’s seen Oscar make dozens of times. He’s out on Santo business. Cesar’s apparently in the middle of a big scheme with his little crew, something fun she might have done with friends from school before her mom got sick. She can’t remember those times too well, but she knows they were good, even if the two of them had to move around a lot. She’d take being dirt poor with her mother over the foster homes she had to deal with in the years after. Her last one was decent, but it’s not like she was able to stay.

The mom was an undercover racist, anyway, so really, Claudia’s better off, even if part of her stays bitter.

The front door opens with a bang, slamming against the far wall with little care for what it might do to it. Claudia hopes it’s not who she thinks it is, but, of course, that would be too much to ask.

“Qué onda, Lil’ Spooky?” says Santi Guerrero, and she turns in time to see him muss up Cesar’s hair. The kid needs a haircut soon. Maybe she should’ve taken him today.

La Oveja comes in after him, nodding at her and Cesar before shifting into a slouch against the doorway, a duffle bag at his feet. The reason she doesn’t like him is because he and Santi are tight. By himself she can ignore him just fine. He’s not the first man to find her interesting, and he’s never made a pass at her, even if she’d rather he kept his eyes to himself. Santi, on the other hand, doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation when it comes to going after things that aren’t his.

Oscar didn’t really bring her by before they started dating. She figured it was a Santo thing, but more than likely it’s because Santi’s an asshole. When she finally spent the night—Cesar at a sleepover, her and Oscar in a bed together for the first time—she woke up before Oscar the next morning. She took a shower and then went to make him breakfast. Thought it would be real romantic, the two of them eating a nice meal together after their night.

When she thinks of it now, she wants to laugh. There they were, sixteen and seventeen, already trying to play house. Figures that he’s trying to get her to just stay with him and Cesar.

Santi, for whatever reason, showed up around the time she got the eggs in the pan. He whistled real sharp at her, spooking her like she was a dog or some other animal he had no respect for. She was wearing real clothes, at least, but when she turned to find this man—no matter how scrawny he was back then, he was taller then Oscar—looking her up and down like he liked what he saw, she still felt naked. For a second it was like she forgot Oscar even existed. It was just her being watched, a piece of meat to this man. Makes her want to scream just thinking about it.

Before he could even say anything to her, though, she blurted out, “Oscar’s still sleeping.”

He raised his eyebrows. Said, “Forreal? Mamita, I wouldn’t get nothing else done if I had a dime like you around the house.”

She said nothing. Willed the eggs not to start burning, because she didn’t want to turn her back on the guy.

“He ain’t brought you by before,” he continued, “shit, I can see why. You real cute—where you from?”

“Pico Union,” she said, stiff.

He whistled again. “You a Salvi, huh?” he laughed, “didn’t know Spooky liked guanacas, I coulda fixed him with some broads sooner. Not that you ain’t pretty, vale.” When he smiled it was clear he was expecting a thank you.

She opened her mouth to—to say it, maybe, or to tell him to go fuck himself, she wasn’t no guanaca—but then a door closed like Oscar was in the bathroom, and he straightened up from where he was half-leaning towards her. Took a seat at the table, hands behind his head while he flexed.

“I’ll wait for him,” he said, with a grin, and Claudia had just gritted her teeth and gotten back to the eggs, half-regretting coming over in the first place.

In the present, she’s almost wishing the same thing.

“Where’s Spooky, chula? Le traímos algo,” Santi says, leering, and she makes her back stiff, like if she makes herself seem bigger they’ll fuck off.

“Leave it in the spare room.”

“Nah,” he says, and takes a seat across from Cesar, who already looks uncomfortable, “gotta make sure none’a it goes missing, you feel me?”

“Right,” she says, and turns back to the stove. Would rather not have to look Santi in the face. He says shit like that all the time, makes it clear he don’t trust her and wants her all at once. Calls her nena when Oscar ain’t around, stays saying he knows some pretty Chicanas if Oscar ever gets bored. Not to his face, of course, but to the others, la Oveja and Chucho at his elbows like he’s good company or something. Has said nastier shit, like what she’s got between her legs must taste like heaven, Salvi girls must be _freaks_ , if _Spooky_ of all people keeps her locked down. All them Santos laugh like he’s funny. All Claudia knows is that if he ever puts a hand on her she’ll gut him.

La Oveja is a coward. That’s why she doesn’t like him.


	3. july.

Cesar insists on helping them carry the bags of clothes Claudia brings with her when Araceli’s folks get back from Mexico. Araceli told her to come back soon, even though she spent half the past month with the Diaz boys anyway, and even told Oscar he could, too.

“But only if you bring Cesar,” she said, and Oscar flipped her off as he walked back to his car.

“This is all you have?” Cesar asks. He seems almost disappointed. Claudia knows it’s because he wants to show off how strong he is, but it stings, just a little bit. She smiles at him anyway.

“Yeah,” she says, a backpack slung over her shoulder and her free hand reaching out to muss up what little bit of hair Cesar has left. He showed up with Oscar the week before after a day of nannying in Brentwood. He seemed equally excited about the clean-cut neighborhood and the fresh buzzcut Oscar gave him. “Thanks for helping.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, very seriously. He’s missing a tooth when he smiles. The bag’s not that big, but he’s so little it looks like it is. Oscar took the fuller ones inside first.

The house smells like Pine-Sol. Like Claudia hasn’t been around after a Santos party, or seen it on any average Friday night, when the mess of a nine year old has yet to be cleaned up again. She should be charmed, probably, that Oscar thinks he should impress her like that, but mostly she’s thinking of her self-imposed two month deadline in this house. No amount of mopping and scrubbing is going to convince her to just stay, even if she’s here until school starts.

Oscar refuses to talk about the three of them just leaving Freeridge _together._ It’s driving her crazy.

“Oscar’s room, baby,” she says, when Cesar looks a little unsure of where he should take his charge. Oscar’s in there already, folding her clothes for her, since she didn’t bother doing much besides throwing  shit into bags that afternoon, and it makes her feel—good. Taken care of.

“Right here, lil’ homie,” Oscar tells him, and then, after, “you want a snack?”

“No thanks,” Cesar says. He stays forgetting to say _thanks_. It’s something they’re working on, the three of them. He watches Oscar and Claudia for a little while, folding clothes and tucking things into drawers, the sun barely setting behind the old curtains shielding them from view. It all feels very domestic. He says, suddenly, “Does this mean you’re getting married?”

Claudia’s neck hurts, she looks up so fast. Says, “Um,” while Oscar stares at Cesar with his mouth half-open. His expression is enough to make her laugh, any other time, but right now, she’s hit with the sudden need to _bolt_. Which won’t work, because she lives here now.

Oh God. She lives here now.

While she frantically reminds herself it’s just for two months, Oscar finally speaks. He clears his throat first. “Whatchu talking ‘bout, C?”

Cesar says, looking thoughtful, “Well, Claudia’s moving in.”

“Yeah,” she says, slowly, hoping she smoothed her expression into something that doesn’t look as frantic as she feels, “but that doesn’t mean…”

She looks to Oscar. He looks back at her. They remain quiet for too long.

“So you’re not getting married?” Cesar asks. His eyebrows pull together.

Claudia says, a little squeaky, “Baby, we’re too young to get married.”

He looks confused. “But you’re grown-ups.”

Claudia wants to disagree on principle.

“You got money for a wedding, compa?” Oscar says. He’s got a pair of Claudia’s shorts in hand, a pile of clothes laid out carefully in front of him. Part of her feels hopelessly enamored of the sight. “You gotta pay for food, and for music, and for a dress…” His voice tapers off. He turns his head to look at Claudia. There’s a faraway look on his face.

“Oh.” Cesar kicks at the carpet a little. It’s almost heartbreaking. But then he looks up, a little mischievous, like he figured something out they must have missed. Classic Diaz. “But how much money does it cost?”

“I love you,” Claudia tells him, cupping his little face in her hands and gently shaking it. “Pero tenés nueve años. You can’t bribe us into getting married.”

He pouts. Claudia stifles a giggle. Same expression as Oscar.

Cesar says, “D’you love each other?”

Christ. This kid is all heartbreak. He’s _also_ probably going to be a heartbreaker, and for a split-second Claudia thinks of all the sad girls she’s going to have to tolerate once the kid hits high school.

Oscar says, his voice a little rough, “Yeah.”

She looks at him. Dark eyes on her. Like he can see right through her, or at least into her mind. She swallows, nervous suddenly. Something almost like butterflies in her belly, but stronger. Like the first time he kissed her in his car, or when he told her he loved her for the first time, or whenever he shows up to drive her home instead of letting her take the bus—a surprise she wasn’t expecting. Something like relief and joy and near-adoration all in one.

“So, one day?” Cesar says. He looks so hopeful.

Claudia hasn’t let herself think that far ahead. She can’t. She loves Oscar, and by extension Cesar, with her whole heart. She can’t imagine not being around them, not hearing from them, not loving what they have together. Hates that sometimes there would be weeks where she couldn’t see them, because texts and phone calls can’t compare. She wants to know what living with Oscar is going to be like, these next two months, but the thought of taking it further—the thought of him giving her a ring and not a necklace with his name on it? That’s not something she’s allowed herself. And here’s Cesar, hair cut like his big brother, who Oscar lives for, who Claudia adores, planting that idea in her head. Making her remember that it’s an option.

She doesn’t know what she should say. Oscar does.

“One day,” he says, and stays looking at her even while Cesar wraps his arms around her in the sweetest hug she can remember receiving.

* * *

Sometimes, not often, not when he can help it, Oscar will disappear to do Santos business, a full day or two MIA. Usually he leaves Cesar with Adrian, who’s a little younger than he is, a cousin from his mother’s side. When it’s just regular stuff he’s doing, he sends Cesar off to his little friends, sends him off with snacks or cash to pay Geny Martinez. Claudia once dropped him off, fifty bucks in her pocket that Geny eyed suspiciously when she tried handing it over.

“Is that _your_ money?” she asked. Claudia couldn’t tell how she felt when she answered no.

Adrian, meanwhile, tends towards apathy. He doesn’t pay much attention to anything that isn’t Santos business, comes by when he’s asked to and takes decent enough care of Cesar that Oscar counts on him. Has a girl who grew up off Whittier, a real Chicana with the overlined lips and creamy thighs, like the songs say. She’s a little uppity, despite running with a Santo, but that’s not Claudia’s business. Now that Claudia’s staying here, though, it makes more sense for her to just kick it with Cesar while they wait for Oscar to come back and pretend he doesn’t run around doing Cuchillos’ bidding most days.

She’s met Cuchillos a handful of times. He once memorably walked into the house while she and Oscar were making out on the couch. Claudia still wants to know how he managed to get a key before _she_ did, but that’ll probably involve a story about Oscar’s father and she’d rather not bring him up. Oscar’s whole demeanor changes, when the name Cisco is muttered, whether it’s by a Santo he’s related to or not. She knows it’s a sore topic. Sometimes she counts herself lucky, knowing that _her_ father was out of the picture before she was even in it. He used to write her, when she was a kid, once every few months. Her mom used to send money. Then he married some girl back home and the letters stopped and her mother wouldn’t answer her questions about it.

The fuck does she need him for, she tells Oscar. Considering the maras in El Salvador, and the one _he_ represented in LA, chances are he’s dead already. She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore than Oscar lets people talk about Cisco. They’re better off. They have each other.

Oscar kisses her and Cesar goodbye and the two of them wave from the front yard like he’s going on a business trip and not whatever job Cuchillos has for him. The man lives…Claudia doesn’t know where. She tries to keep her knowledge of Oscar’s exact responsibilities and whereabouts at a minimum, on the off chance she ever gets dragged into questioning. Better to maintain some sort of deniability about all of it, not just when faced by the cops but in case the Santos decide they need to question her, too. Maybe Adrian doesn’t mind her but he’s loyal to the cross. She doesn’t trust any of them, save Oscar and maybe Chilango, not to put a bullet in her if they think she’s snitched.

Cuchillos is a different story though. Good friend of Cisco’s, maybe the only real reminder of him that Oscar can tolerate. Claudia thinks the Santos themselves probably serve that purpose, too, but it’s not like they talk about it. Cuchillos is a big dude. Bigger than Oscar, even, height-wise and across the shoulders. He’s covered in tattoos, like a lot of the Santos, his wife’s name behind his ear and his daughters’ over his knuckles. Claudia knows them; both are younger than her, pretty, dating boys who don’t gangbang even if she’s caught them watching Oscar with a bit too much interest. She hates Santos parties.

The thing is, Claudia never really had a father. He was something like a specter, a word she thinks was made up specifically for her, someone her mother clearly loved until a letter came and shattered whatever dream her mother might have had for the three of them one day being a family. For Claudia, though, it didn’t make a difference. He was never anything but an idea, and then he was less than that, and she’ll never know what El Salvador made of him. She can’t imagine ever visiting, and even if she did, the odds of her finding one specific man out of however many gangbangers have been deported seems slim.

That’s not the case for Oscar though. She doesn’t even know what jail Cisco stays at, but she knows that Oscar doesn’t visit him. Saw him once, freshman year, but that was it. She’s lucky that she even has a name for the man; she’s seen maybe one picture of him, when she was digging through the garage for some charcoal to grill and a beat-up photo album fell off one of the shelves in there. Oscar looks a lot like him.

There’s shit they don’t talk about, and there’s shit they’ve only whispered between them when they’re sure that no one else is awake to hear. Oscar’s always said that they’re better off, him and Cesar, just the two of them. Said that their father was a waste of space, even if the Santos thought differently. Said it was his fault their mom got as fucked up as she ended up, though it was clear he blamed her for a lot of the stuff they dealt with, too. After he left it was like he was never there in the first place. When he got locked up his mother practically celebrated, if sobering up long enough to curse out the entire Diaz line could be called that.

Oscar’s never really had a father, not while Cisco was around and even less after the burglary charge. That didn’t matter much to the Santos, though, not when most Diaz boys in Freeridge end up running with them. Claudia can’t figure out if it’s ever been a choice. But Cisco being who he was—one of Cuchillos’ main guys, a big name in Freeridge and outside it, too, well. Cuchillos wasn’t going to let his oldest son get away. That’s how the two of them got to where they are, after all, Oscar running around late at night and something like a knight in cholo gear.

Cuchillo’s took Oscar under his wing and taught him everything he knows, practically. Sure, his cousins did the dirty work, but Oscar gets trusted with money and weapons and (this is something Claudia pretends not to know, something she doesn’t _want_ to know, something she wishes she could forget) TOS orders. He does this and more, all the organizational responsibilities that has slowly but surely developed under Cuchillos tutelage, and still he feels indebted to Cuchillos. He’s never said as much but it’s clear, the way he moves and sounds and looks when he calls. Jumps as high as he’s asked to. Won’t hear a word otherwise.

Worst part, she thinks, is that Cuchillos likes her just fine. Looked horribly amused to find her in Oscar’s lap that time he walked in unannounced, offers her compliments like a tío might the few times he’s stopped by after. Part of her doesn’t even find him threatening, despite the tattoos and gold teeth and unsaid record. How can she, knowing what Oscar has done for him and for the Santos? How, when she loves Oscar as much as she does? Cuchillos is a specter, too.

She tries to forget but she can’t. Doesn’t matter how hard she tries to play house with the Diaz boys. With her hands on Cesar’s shoulders, watching Oscar drive off, there’s no way to pretend that Oscar is anything other than what Cuchillos has always planned. If they ever haul her in she’ll lie, but that’s just it. She’d be lying.

* * *

It’s been three weeks of living with Oscar, and Claudia’s pretty sure this is the most sexually frustrated she’s ever been in her life. It doesn’t make much sense, considering she’s living with her man now, but, well.

Running after a nine year old is exhausting, first of all, but school being out means that Cesar’s home more often. Claudia doesn’t work forty hours, so more often than not she’s the one keeping him company, but even when Oscar _is_ home, the kid, rightfully so, wants all of them to spend time together or otherwise hang out with Oscar. It’s cute. She loves them both. Claudia isn’t jealous of a nine year old.

But there are two things that kill her about having a child to look after in the home she now shares with her boyfriend. One, Oscar won’t fuck her if said child is home. Fine. She can understand why. The issue lies in problem two: Oscar is always shirtless. He works out. He’s _good-looking_. Claudia is eighteen and human. She wants him _all_ the _time_.

“We can be quiet,” she says against his mouth, like she hasn’t been moaning into their kisses the last ten minutes. One of his hands grips her thigh and she want it _higher_ , wants him to slide both under her clothes and get out of his and—

He laughs, kissing her again before pulling away. She doesn’t groan but it’s a close thing. He tugs her shirt down where it’s ridden up her belly before fixing his. She knows he’s hard. She also knows she’s pouting, feeling an absolute mess and knowing he’s not going to make a bigger one out of the both of them tonight.

“Cesar just went to bed,” he reminds her, like she doesn’t already know their routine. Maybe she pounced on him the second he closed the door to their room. He carried her to bed like it was nothing, and yes, that makes her hot, too. “And _I_ can be quiet. You can’t.”

“Bet I could make you loud,” she says, and the heat of his gaze makes her bite her lip. Maybe she should listen for once, but then again, she can’t keep living like this. She’s going to spontaneously combust.

“We can go for drive,” he offers, like they haven’t been screwing in his car for coming up on two years. It’s fun and it gets the job done, but—

“We have a _bed_ ,” she says, even if it’s really Oscar’s. She bought some memory foam when she moved in and Oscar, who constantly complains about falling asleep, has been out like a light most nights ever since. She just wants to use it for more than sleep for once. That’s not asking for too much, right?

“Pretend we don’t,” he says, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. He’s always doing that. Gets her riled up and then does something sweet, like kiss her palm while he’s inside her. Ends an argument by telling her she's right and he's a dumbass but can they deal with it tomorrow, please, he just wants to lay up with her and not fight. Makes her melt. She's a sucker for it. That’s just Oscar, always looking out for her, always making sure she’s being taken care of.

“I love you,” she says. The words feel new every time, maybe because she doesn’t say them half as often as she could. Neither does Oscar. Maybe it’s just hard for the both of them. But he grins at her anyway, helpless looking, dimple charming as ever and looking happy like she’s only really seen around Cesar and maybe her.

“I love you too,” he says. Drops his head, laughs a little. He’s still mostly on top of her, and Claudia kind of likes them like this. On the edge of something more but having a good time, anyway. “fucking…come on. We can have sex in the shower.”

“Oscar,” she says, even though that sounds like a great idea, “there’s a drought.”

“There’s always a drought, we live in LA.”

Think of the Earth, she tells herself. Think of…she bites her lip again. “What was the water bill last time?”

“Mamita, that’s _my_ business,” he says, which is fair, because all she’s paying is electric and the groceries, “get up, you think you the only one who wants to fuck today?”

“You’re so annoying,” she says, and definitely doesn’t moan when he smacks her ass as she gets up. Living with Oscar has its perks.


	4. august: an interlude

Oscar wakes up to kisses.

“Mi chero,” Claudia mutters against his jaw, and he brings up a hand up to curl over hers. Brushes his thumb against her lower lip like an afterthought. She kisses him there, too, says, “Mi vida. Despértate.”

“Time ‘s it?” he says. Breathes in real deep, wipes at his eyes instead of trying to get her to stop kissing him. He doesn’t mind it much at all; can think of few better ways to wake up, Claudia warm against him and stroking his face. He knocked out almost immediately after crawling into bed, her stretched out next to him like always.

Well, maybe not always, but the last month. Or any other time she’s spent the night, because she’s spent plenty with Oscar since they started dating, coming on two years now. He should start thinking about gifts already. Should start asking about ring sizes and carats, maybe, but that might be a little beyond him. He’s pretty sure diamonds are stupid expensive. He should probably also figure out if that’s something she wants. Claudia’s said they’re too young but—

Oscar wants it, anyway. Wants her every day of the week and then some. Wishes there were twice as many hours in a day, sometimes. Like living with her isn’t enough.

“Six,” she says, and he opens his eyes for real.

“What?”

“Shh,” she whispers, “Cesar’s still asleep.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” he says, and blinks at her. She has her head propped up on her hand. Hair slipping from the braid he gave her last night, smiling at him like she’s got a secret. She looks so good. “What did you do?”

“Why you acting like I’m a trouble-maker?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. He has to fight to not smile back.

“You run around with me,” he says, “and you know I’m trouble, nena.”

“They call you _Spooky_ ,” she says, “am I supposed to find that scary?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t,” she says, and wrinkles her nose when he pulls her down to kiss her for real. “You said you weren’t busy today.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but. I was gonna sleep at least a little.”

“We didn’t go to sleep that late.”

“Mujer,” he says, because she’s right, but that doesn’t mean it’s not six in the morning. “Qué hiciste?”

“Don’t get mad,” she says, biting her lip like she’s trying hard not to keep smiling, “but I have Disneyland tickets for us.”

He stares at her. The suns coming in through the curtains already, but it’s not that strong this early in the day. Surprisingly, there’s not too much noise making it through the window. It’s August, so it’ll be hot sooner rather than later, and Claudia has Disneyland tickets.

“What did you—”

“I been working,” she says, defensive. “I’m not _that_ broke.”

“I thought you had to pay for school this month,” he says. Feels a little dumb, honestly.

“Yeah,” she says, “and I had enough left over to do something fun for us.”

“What’s wrong with the pool,” he says like his head’s not spinning. Maybe she sold some shit she didn’t need. She raises both eyebrows this time.

“We should do something fun for Cesar,” she says. She always tries to spin the things she does into _something for Cesar_. Likes to say Oscar’s the one trying to play house when she’s just as bad. Like her doing something for the kid ain’t a big deal. Like there aren’t a hundred other things they could do, the three of them, that would do all of them good. Things that don’t cost as much as Disney.

“So you thought Disneyland?”

“He’ll have so much _fun_ ,” she says, making her eyes go big. “Come on. Don’t you wanna go, too?”

“I’m grown,” he says, and then, “ow,” when she pinches him. “Claudis.”

“We’re going to Disney today,” she says, matter-of-fact. “The park opens at eight.”

“And you woke me up _now_?”

“Well we gotta get ready,” she says, “we should probably leave around seven. I wanna make sure we have time to do everything.”

“ _Everything_? Who’s paying for that part?”

“I know you have money,” she says, a little threateningly. He shouldn’t find it hot, but he does.

He tries to pretend otherwise. “What, so I’m supposed to pay for all the other shit since you got the tickets?”

“Yes,” she says, tilting her chin up a little. She knows she’s going to get her way.

Oscar can’t help it. He kisses her again, rolls them so he has her pinned to the bed. Slides his knee between hers, says, “We have time for a quickie, then.”

She arches her back. Pure instinct under him. Says, breathless, a little surprised, “Yeah?”

He presses two fingers to her mouth. Breathes in, sharp, when she sucks on them. “You gonna be quiet?”

She nods. Eyes real big, pupils blown. Oscar’s never wanted anyone so badly in his life, so he’s going to break his rule about sex in the house while Cesar’s around. He’s human. It’s only to be expected.

Afterwards, he tiptoes to Cesar’s room to see if he’s ruined the kid’s innocence yet. He’s absolutely knocked out, though, sprawled on his belly on the bed with the covers all twisted. Oscar grins. Comes over and rests his hand on his back for just a moment, their breathing the only sound he can hear without straining. Claudia’s showering. He can whip them up breakfast and then jump in himself, easy. They’ll get out of the house by seven with no problem, and Cesar can go to Disney like they’re a nice family from Brentwood and not some dumb kids from Freeridge. Cesar deserves it more than anyone.

Oscar’s glad he gets to see it, though.

“Hey,” he whispers, and gently shakes Cesar’s shoulder. “Wake up, Lil’ Spooky.”

Cesar puts up a fight. Oscar’s half tempted to just carry him to the car asleep, but he’s got to put real clothes on and brush his teeth, at least, and that’s not going to happen if he doesn’t wake up.

“C’mon, homie,” he says, and Cesar pushes his hand away.

“What?” he says, all sleepy. Oscar wants to grin at him but won’t. He’s at a real sensitive age, Cesar is. Oscar doesn’t want to accidentally make him mad.

“Whatchu doing today?” The kid likes to pretend he’s grown.

“Dunno,” he says, and rubs his eyes. Sits up, too. He’s almost a morning person. “What time’s it?”

“Early,” Oscar says. He, at least, finally feels a little more awake. “No important business with your crew, then?”

“No,” Cesar says, and yawns. Oscar can’t help but grin.

“Good,” he says, “get dressed, C, we got big plans.”

“What plans?”

“We’re going to Anaheim.”

“Why?”

Of course the kid doesn’t know where Disney is. Oscar half-wants to say it’s a surprise, but he’d rather see Cesar’s face light up right now than later. Says, “C’mon, kid, don’tchu know where Disneyland is?”

Christ. Cesar’s whole face brightens, a big-ass smile and his eyes wide with surprise. A little snaggle-toothed. Pure joy. “ _Really_?!”

“Yes, really, now get up and—wait, Claudia’s in the shower, C, knock first—”

* * *

Maybe there aren’t as many people at the park as he was expecting, but it’s still too many people for Oscar’s comfort. Passing through security was a pain; he knows what he looks like. Everyone can see he’s gotten up to some shit. He’s there for Cesar, not because he’s going to do something dumb in an amusement park. He’s got more sense than that.

“Do you?” Claudia says, holding Cesar’s hand to keep him from getting lost in the crowd. Cesar looks ready to break into a flat sprint, like he knows the park already. He’s ready to go. Claudia’s wearing white shorts, for some reason, even though he told her she was going to stain them within an hour of arriving at the park. She stuck her tongue out at him, though, so she’s shit out of luck if she expects him to treat whatever food stain she’ll inevitably give herself. Yes, he does the laundry; she doesn’t separate her colors and whites. He loves her, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let her fuck up his clothes. At least that shade of yellow looks good on her.

“Name one thing I’ve done this week,” he says, “that I shouldn’t have.”

She tilts her head. Fixes him with the most unimpressed look she can manage. It’s the middle of the week, and he’s been up to his usual shit. Making money how he always does; that much is true. Running around with his boys, fielding calls from Cuchillos. The man’s the closest thing to father he’s got, really. Doesn’t know who he’d be, if Cuchillos wasn’t around in some capacity. Oscar knows the dude makes Claudia uncomfortable; they don’t interact too often, but when they do it’s obvious. Cuchillos thinks it’s funny. Offers her compliments like a tío, tells Oscar he picked a good one.

Like he don’t feel lucky to have her, sometimes. Like there aren’t days he looks at her and wonders when she’s going to realize he doesn’t have a real future. Not like she does. He’s not looking forward to that. But he’s not going to think about it while they’re all out together like a family. He _knows_ he’s got more sense than that.

“I know you was looking through my wallet,” he says, slinging his arm over her shoulder to pull her close. He kisses her eyebrow, ruffles Cesar’s hair. “How else you know I got money for once?”

“For once, dicés,” she says, hand on his waist. She’s smiling. “You and Cesar both got new shoes on.”

“They’re nice, right, C?” he says, and Cesar grins back at him. They fist bump. “What’re we doing first?”

They both look to Claudia. She takes a deep breath. “So. Apparently there’s a trick to seeing everything.”

“ _Everything_?”

“Claudis,” Oscar says, maybe a little reprimanding. They’re going to be here all day.

“Yes,” she says to them both, “but saben que? It seemed kinda boring. We should do whatever we want.” She swings her and Cesar’s hands a little. “Que pensás, Cesar?”

“Um,” he says, and Oscar takes pity.

“Ain’t there some ride about the world?”

“I know you know what it’s actually called,” Claudia says, “and I’m pretty sure _It’s a small world_ is over there. Don’t think you’re not going on with us.”

“Why else would I come with,” he says, steering them in the right direction. He keeps his arm around her, watching, half-interested, as folks take an extra step away from them when they catch sight of him. He’s not sure how to feel about it.

“To buy us food,” she says, glancing up at him, and smiles when he kisses her, quick, before Cesar can tell them to stop being gross. He catches them anyway, and Claudia spends the rest of the walk to the ride giggling at them both. Oscar’s stupidly happy, even if the sun already feels hot and he knows getting Cesar to stand still to reapply sunscreen is going to be a pain in the ass.

They make it through two rides besides the first—something with Dumbo, another with Alice in Wonderland—before Cesar decides he wants to spend his brother’s hard-earned cash. There’s too much shit in this park; people, rides, people in creepy costumes. Oscar knows Cesar’s eating it up, but he’s too grown for that. Giant rats aren’t cute, even if everyone stays dressing up as one—kids, their parents, the Minnie Mouse blowing kisses. Cesar’s having the time of his life, clearly.

“I want the ears,” Cesar tells them after ride number three, and both he and Claudia turn to Oscar expectantly.

He raises his eyebrows. “Good for you.”

“Oscar,” Cesar says, insistent. He’s so fucking short, Oscar thinks, and struggles not to laugh at his kid brother tugging on his shirt while he pouts. They’re in matching fits. He prides himself on keeping this kid in the iciest clothes imaginable, even if Claudia tells him he’s fooling himself. His little eyebrows are all scrunched up. It’s adorable. “We have to match.”

“We have to what,” Oscar says, and then Claudia’s pulling his wallet from his pocket and sashaying away with Cesar’s hand in hers. In Cesar’s defense, they _do_ often match. Oscar’s not sure why the ears need to be included today, though.

“Tell him what you want, baby,” she says to Cesar, who happily starts a conversation with the guy selling Mickey Mouse ears to every other sucker at Disney today. Oscar is apparently one of these suckers.

Afterwards, Cesar looks too happy to be holding three sets of mouse ears. Claudia looks a little evil with them on, but she squats down to let Cesar straighten them, anyway. It’s probably because she’s grinning at Oscar like she’s going to eat him alive.

“Your turn,” she says sweetly, straightening up and putting a hand on his lower back. Pushes him, gently, closer to Cesar.

“Thanks,” he says, dry, but lets Cesar put the damn ears on him anyway. “They’re going to slip.”

“No they won’t,” Cesar says, but then squints at him just a little. Hums. “We can just fix them. Do you have tape?”

“No,” Oscar says, Claudia giggling, “I don’t,” and then his phone rings.

The number’s new, but there’s only ever one person who calls him from one that’s unknown.

He says, “I gotta take this,” Mickey Mouse ears still on, and pretends not to notice the disappointment on either of their faces when he slips away from them to answer Cuchillos. It’s not like he has much of a choice.

* * *

“What did he want?”

Cesar knocked out almost immediately after getting into the car. Oscar can see him in the rearview mirror, keeps checking on him like he might disappear if he doesn’t. Maybe he didn’t ruin the day with his occasional disappearing acts, but Claudia’s not about to let him forget it. He could see it the entire time they were at Disney, the tense set of her shoulders when his phone would ring, her eyes following his every move. She smiled real pretty for all the pictures they took, three disposable cameras in her bag with no film left over, but Oscar knows her better than anyone. She’s pissed.

The two of them are pretty good about getting shit settled. Being together hasn’t been hard. Nothing like Oscar and Cesar’s parents were, though he doesn’t think anything can compare. Or aspire. Or whatever other word someone wants to use. He remembers the window-shaking fights, the way his mother’s voice would veer off when Cisco would get his hands on her. He’s never wanted to be like that. Never wanted to be like his father, even if he is in a lot of ways. Oscar wants to pretend it’s just a Santo thing, but the older he gets the more that feels like a lie.

He does his best with Cesar. Hasn’t put his hands on him, ever; it feels like Cesar’s always been his responsibility, even when both their parents were still around. It hasn’t been a year since their mom left, after all. Oscar half-blames himself. Should have noticed her leaving sooner, or given the house more of his attention. Cuchillos had started making noise about new shit he wanted to run by him, and he had Cesar to take care of like always. Their mom disappearing for a few days wasn’t anything new. She used to do that regularly enough that it wasn’t even a blip on Oscar’s radar when she took off a few weeks before his birthday.

Of course, she didn’t end up coming back. Oscar didn’t notice at first. But the days stretched into a week and then two, and when he went into her room—used to be hers and Cisco’s, once upon a time—he didn’t find half as full as it should have been. No needles, no dirty spoons. No proof that a dope fiend once lived here and ignored both her kids for years on end. No proof of her getting thrown on her ass by her man, or yelling herself hoarse when Oscar got into the same shit he did. Like she was just a ghost. Like she never existed in the first place.

Cesar took longer to notice. Figured she’d come back eventually, kept asking for her and then losing interest with whatever Oscar used to distract him. He hasn’t asked for her all summer, so as far as anyone’s concerned, they’re going to be fine. The less he knows, or remembers, the better. Oscar’s never planned on forgiving Penelope Diaz for being who she was. But leaving…he hopes she’s fucking miserable, wherever she is. He’ll never get over it.

Claudia was right there alongside him, though. Cleaned his hands up when he put his fist through the back screen door. Made pupusas and entertained Cesar and spent most of winter break with them, warm in Oscar’s bed like she always is, playing house without him having to drop any hints. He appreciates it more now, with her living with them.

That doesn’t mean they’ve learned how to argue. It sounds bad, but Oscar’s pretty sure a person has to learn how to disagree with someone. He and Claudia are working on it. He’s not too good at it, he’ll admit. Always says he wants to deal with it the next day, and then they never do. He doesn’t _like_ arguing with her, not about anything. Usually it’s about him doing dumb shit. Santos business. Shit, their first big blowout fight—one he thought was _it_ , they were over, she had to hate his guts—was after his first charge. Fucking joke is what it was, charging him as an adult, but he’s a Santo. A _Spic_. Already had that teardrop on his face. It wasn’t a surprise.

Claudia was _pissed_. Not like today, stewing quietly after a day of pretending they were normal for Cesar. No, this was more serious. Yelled at him in his car when he came by to take her on a drive. Told him things like _Why don’t you ever think_ , and, _Is this just how you’re gonna live your life?_ , and _Por Dios, Oscar, ain’t you thinking about anyone but yourself?_ Like he isn’t always. Like she and Cesar aren’t on his mind 24/7, from the moment he wakes up until he falls asleep. She didn’t get it. Didn’t get that he was doing this because it was the only way to keep him and Cesar together. Only way to keep his kid brother fed and clean and with a roof over his head.

He yelled back at her, that day. A big fight, like he said, not anything like the one that got them together in the first place. He didn’t get any action, after all. Told her not to fucking talk to him like that, he wasn’t some mamón from Pico Union; she said he was just like her father—her father, who she doesn’t even _know_. She can’t be allowed to use that as an insult.

“Your dad was some ain’t shit salvatrucha, nena, so watch your fucking mouth,” he said at a red light, and she straight up got out the car. Told him, _Chupá mi pito, pendejo_ , and normally he would have laughed at the words coming out of her mouth. Instead he stared as she walked back in the direction of her foster parents’ house, didn’t snap out of it until someone started laying on their horn.

He thought that was it. No more Claudia—all over his arrest. Logically he knew that maybe she had a point. But what the fuck else did she expect from him, really? He’s been a Santo since he was fourteen. Been a Santo since long before they started dating. It’s who he is, it’s in his blood. Of course he answers when Cuchillos calls. Of course he knows how to run this business. Santi and Chucho and all of them—they all listen when he speaks. That didn’t come naturally, he’s worked for it. Maybe it helps that Cuchillos trusts him. Maybe it’s helpful that he’s his father’s son. But this is his life. It always has been, and it always will be.

He tells her, “Don’t worry about it,” and listens to her breathe. Looks at her from his peripheral—so pretty, like always. He doesn’t deserve her. He thinks she might even know it.


	5. september.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say that, as a mexican-american woman, when i write about anti-central american sentiment in mexican communities i'm writing from my own perspective and experiences, more than anything (though i can also suggest any pertinent readings on the subject, should anyone be interested). i don't write it to excuse it, but rather acknowledge it as something that's there. 
> 
> anyway! pls heed new tags.

No matter what Oscar likes to claim, Claudia has friends besides Araceli. Chilango’s sister, who everyone calls Chilanga but who stays yelling at them when they do, is a year older than Claudia, and the only one who hates Santi as much as she does. That might be because they went out for a hot second, but still. Claudia’s going to take whatever she can get.

Leti starts complaining about him the second Claudia walks in.

“You hear what this pendejo is saying?” she says, and Claudia knows better than to ask which.

“What now?”

“Que us fucking _Salvis_ stay ruining shit for everyone else in California,” Leti says, and slams the cutting board in her hand down on the counter. “This muthafucker wants to complain about _child_ _migrants_? Are you kidding me? I’m glad he can’t fucking vote.”

“He still on parole?”

“Of course he is,” she says, mouth pulled into a scowl, “I can’t believe he’s pissing clean.”

“You know he’s probably buying samples off Rudy on Fourth,” Claudia says, and picks through the fruit bowl in front of her. Leti swings the knife down, grunts a little when it doesn’t quite manage to slice through the thick flesh of the pineapple she’s cutting. Claudia grabs a clementine and gets settled.

“I don’t give a fuck if God Herself is helping him stay outta trouble with his PO,” Leti says, dark hair falling over her eyes for a second before she flips her head back, “I catch him around here I’m calling the fucking police, estoy hasta ‘cá,” and she lifts her hand, still holding the knife, to about eye-level, “I’m tired of him.”

“You _been_ tired of him,” Claudia says, because she knows for all their talk neither of them would call the cops. Not on a Santo.

Leti’s tried, sure. She and Santi were a thing around the time Claudia and Oscar got together, even if Santi stayed fucking other girls throughout their less-than-a-year-long relationship. The two of them used to have shouting matches at Santos parties whenever she caught him with someone else—kept taking him back, worst of all.

Claudia didn’t know her super well back then. Knew she was running around with Santi, knew she hated to be called Chilanga even if her brother didn’t mind the nickname so much. Later, she’d find out it was because their Mexican side did them dirty, on account of their dad being from Metapán.

“Doesn’t matter that he treats her good,” Leti told her, “we’re just dirty Salvis to my mom’s folks. I dunno how you can call yourself that.”

Claudia’s not the only girl she knows who calls herself _Salvi_ , though. It’s the other words she likes less.

So Letty doesn’t claim Mexico and Chilango pretends not to claim El Salvador. Fine. Chilango probably shouldn’t have let her run around with Santi, though, even before the time the police got called and no one wanted to take her statement.

Claudia has to be honest: dating a Santo ain’t all that. She has to pretend not to notice a lot of shit, has to pick her battles carefully. Not everything is her business, doesn't matter that she's Oscar's girl. He comes by with a new tattoo on his face, she’s going to catalogue it carefully. She remembers him getting that tear. She knows he could probably fit a few more.

They were real quiet that day, and she doesn’t like to think about it. But Oscar—he’s good to her, she thinks. Doesn’t sleep around, doesn’t put his hands on her if it’s not to make her feel good. They’re not good at arguing with each other, sure, and she lets him get away with too much. He’s done shit she can’t imagine doing but that she lets herself forget _matters_. Fine. But he doesn’t throw her into walls, smack her around, none of that shit.

That’s not the kind of man Santi is. Sure, he uses the same shit Oscar does. More often, though. Makes him dangerous, angry and unpredictable. Leti would try to get his attention and he’d lash out. Again, Claudia didn’t know her too well when she was still seeing Santi. She tried to stay away from the guy, back then. Still does, really.

Leti said, after, when the two of them finally became friends, that it wasn’t even the worst he ever got to her. Claudia, thinking of her bloody teeth and the way her wrist hung, unnaturally, feels sick just at the memory. At its most simple, it was a party that got out of hand. Leti and Santi got into it. He was smoking, and drinking, and she was telling him off in the kitchen when he lost his patience with her. Claudia learned the details later. Leti’s face against the counter, her hands up to defend herself. Santi grabbing her and getting lost in it, practically, no mercy for this girl he called his.

Claudia remembers the shouting. Remembers Oscar’s hand dropping away from her waist and then his rushing into the kitchen, her blinking after him while Adrian twitched next to her. Adrian saying, _Dunno why he cares so much, ‘s not like Santi ain’t always been like this_ , Leti’s voice going high in the kitchen and everyone ignoring it.

“I wouldn’t,” Adrian warned her, even as Claudia finally followed after Oscar. That was when she saw the bruising on Leti’s face and arms, how she cradled her wrist in her uninjured hand while Oscar and Santi muttered furiously to one another near the doorway. The kitchen quiet, suddenly, despite how loud it seemed from outside.

Oscar barely spared her a glance. Said, “Go outside,” and went back to Santi.

She looked to Leti and she shook her head. Dark hair, glossy and thick. Her eyes looked bloodshot. Claudia wavered for a second. Leti bared her bloody teeth, said, “ _Go_ ,” and by the time Claudia got back to Adrian the sirens were loud.

“A misunderstanding,” is what Leti told her they called it, a few months later, Santi fucking someone new and the Santos keeping their distance from her. Claudia ran into her at the fruit market, of all places. Her wrist was wrapped up. One bloody girl and two men, too calm, could convince any cop, so long as they’re all brown. Claudia knew better than to pretend differently. “Dislocated.”

“You okay?” Claudia said, and meant more than just that.

Leti bared her teeth. Something like a smile. “Spooky treat you right?”

“Yeah,” she said, and Leti shook her head like she didn’t believe it.

Today, Claudia says, “You think the cops would come?”

“’Course not,” Leti says. She takes a bite of pineapple, teeth closing around the knife. “Pigs hate women worse than gangbangers, sabés?”

* * *

Leti’s the one who hooks her up with her new apartment, though.

“They’re nice,” she insists, that first week of September when Claudia stops by after school. She’s taking a bunch of intro courses—English, math, a Spanish class that’s too easy. “I know them from church.”

“You go to church?” Claudia can’t remember the last time _she_ went.

Leti says, “Only ‘cause Nando’s on house arrest, else my mom would be dragging his sorry ass too.”

“They don’t know he runs with Santos?”

“Eh,” Leti says, sprawled across the couch, still in her pajamas. She works nights at a local nursing home, full-time since graduating. She even did a CNA course the summer after. “They know and they don’t know. Can’t really hide it, right, si andaba in the fucking joint for a few months.”

Leti’s got a mouth on her. That might have been why Santi liked her in the first place.

“They looking for a roommate, then?”

“Yeah,” Leti says, “Yolanda’s Guatemalan, so she gets shit from them Mexicans you stay dating, too.”

Claudia flinches. Can’t help it—Oscar’s come close to saying something she can’t forgive him for, but he’s never gone as far as Santi has. Other Santos are guilty of it too, of course. Santi’s just loudest. But that doesn’t mean Claudia doesn’t hear it all, sometimes. Can’t erase from her memory, stays hearing them taunt her and her countrymen and her country all in one breath.

She _likes_ being Salvadoran. What she doesn’t like is the looks it sometimes gets her when she’s kicking it with the Santos. Like they got any ground to stand on, coming after her like that.

She says, “Born here?”

“Yeah,” she says, “the war, sabés. None of us can say we ain’t over here ‘cause of that shit.”

“Yeah,” Claudia says, and, afterwards, tries to figure out how she’s going to tell Oscar.

She practices it everywhere; on her way to work, coming back from school, when she goes to pick up Cesar. It’s a three bedroom in La Avenida. Not a bad drive to Oscar’s house, really, even if she’s a little bit farther from school than she’d like to be. It’s cheaper than she expected, though, which is better than she was hoping. She meets Yolanda— _Call me Yoli!_ —and her current roommate on a Tuesday. Joints in Freeridge are ugly, they tell her. They like La Avenida more, Pico Union’s too far. Move-in date’s at the end of September, and Claudia needs furniture, this time.

Oscar picks her up from work one day, and when they pass a garage sale she tells him to stop. It’s a beautiful day out, and there aren’t too many people there. A nice yard, green despite the lingering summer heat.

Oscar’s confused. “Why?”

There’s a bed frame, simple but sturdy-looking, near the garage door.

“Just to look,” she says, and kisses him before climbing out of the car. He follows after her. There are trinkets—worn clothes, children’s toys, a few well-polished picture frames. Here and there someone will give her and Oscar looks, but he’s not even the most tatted up dude here. Says hi to a couple of them, even, while Claudia tries to circle closer to the bed frame.

Finally, he gets caught up in conversation with someone she thinks is Mario Martinez, and she gets to her target. It doesn’t have a headboard, but that’s fine. Black bars, looks foldable. No price on it, though. She looks up just as some woman—Italian-passing, Claudia thinks, momentarily, meaning she’s the kind of Latina who could get on TV—comes up to her.

“Twenty bucks,” she says, matter-of-fact. Her hair is cut into a blunt bob, and her eyes are a warm brown.

“That’s it?”

“Just got a new one,” the woman says, and smiles. “Got this one at Walmart. It’s still good, though. My husband and I just wanted an upgrade.”

Claudia touches the metal. Tugs on it, just a little, to see if it’ll move. “Does it fold up?”

“Yup,” the woman says, and shows her how. It turns into a neat little square in no time. “What do you think?”

“Twenty bucks, right,” Claudia says, even as she digs out two tens. When she turns, purchase in hand, Oscar’s there, eyebrow raised like he can’t make sense of her. She doesn’t stumble, but it’s a close thing. “Ay,” she says, eyes wide, “you scared me.”

“They call me Spooky, nena,” he says, and reaches out to take the bed frame from her. “What we need this for?”

“Um,” she says, as they start walking towards the car. “Pues.”

Oscar waits for her to continue. They reach the car in silence, and he looks at her, curious, after he pops the trunk open. “What’s it for?”

She says, “I found an apartment,” and watches his face go through several emotions she can’t quite place.

“What?”

“Some of Leti’s friends were looking for a roommate.”

“Who?”

“ _Chilanga_ ,” Claudia says, and rolls her eyes. She steps close to him, takes his hands in hers, “You know she don’t like being called that.”

“I ain’t ever called her Leti,” he says.

“Leticia works too,” she says, and wraps her arms around his waist. He doesn’t look pleased, but he puts his hands on her hips anyway, so she’s going to consider it a win. “I’m moving out in two weeks.”

“Two _weeks_?” Oscar looks—hurt. Mouth parted, eyebrows scrunched. “I thought you were gonna stay.”

“When’d I say that?”

“School started already,” he says, like that’s an answer, “figured you’d’ve left before the semester, if you were gonna leave at all.”

She sniffs. Looks away from him, because he looks confused and a little betrayed, like what she just said was completely out of left field and not something she decided on before she ever moved in. She hasn’t done anything wrong.

“I said I was gonna leave,” she says, and it’s the wrong thing to say. His face goes blank, and he takes a step away from her. She tries to hold on, fingers at the hem of his shirt, but he moves too fast.

“C’mon,” he says, “I gotta make dinner for Cesar.”

“Oscar,” she says, but then he climbs into the car, leaves her standing near the back door by herself. She blinks, looks around. Doesn’t find the day any less beautiful for whatever’s happening, and gets in the car, too.

The ride is too quiet.

She says, “You know that’s not what I meant,” and rubs her face when he won’t answer.

Finally, he says, “I don’t see the point in you moving out.”

“Ya te dije,” she says, patience slipping, “I need my own space, Oscar. I got school still.”

“You’re wasting your money,” he says, voice flat. “What’s the rent, huh? You barely spending anything living with me.”

She’s also spending a lot of time on maintaining a _house_ , but she doesn’t say that. “You know I’m trying to transfer next year, anyway,” she says. Voice too quiet, too careful. She looks at the set of his jaw, how he won’t look at her.

“Lo sé,” he says, eyes on the road. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t listen if you did,” she says, and folds her hands in her lap. Wishes they were her mother’s, if only so she could ask her if she’s doing the right thing.

Oscar sighs. Gusty. “I’m not tryna hold you back.”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, “I just said that I’m moving out, like I said I was gonna. It’s September already. It’s a nine-month lease. Why you worried?”

“And next summer?”

“We’ll have the summer together,” she says. Soothing. Like she’s trying to calm him down. She grits her teeth anyway.

“Lemme guess,” Oscar says, “La Avenida?”

“Yeah,” she says, “’s a nice apartment.”

He says, after a too-quiet minute, “I’ll redo the locks for you.”

“Thank you,” Claudia says, and when Oscar reaches for her hand she lets him take it.

* * *

Claudia doesn’t always have the best ideas, but this might’ve been the worst. Araceli’s laughing at her about the apartment issue from the second she tells her, and is still acting a fool by the time they get to the tattoo parlor—she wants her ear pierced, apparently. Claudia nearly pisses herself when Cuchillos of all people greets them.

“Claudia,” he says, in Spanish, “que gusto verte, mija.”

“Hi,” she says, a little weak. Behind her, Araceli sounds like she’s choking. “Como va.”

Cuchillos is scary as _fuck_. Claudia might not be as afraid of him as, say, Santi, but she’s got a healthy respect for someone who looks like they could literally snap her in half with one hand. He looks like someone Oscar could turn into, one day. Maybe that’s why she always feels so unsettled. Him talking to her like he’s her tío doesn’t help.

“Qué les traen?” he asks them. Araceli is still coughing.

“Ear piercing,” Claudia says faintly. “She uh. She wanted. A…something. In her ear.”

“Ah,” Cuchillos says, and he’s grinning. He’s got two teeth framed in gold. “Y para ti?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says. Her voice is too high. “I’m just. Here pa’ apoyar, you know.”

“Don’t like permanent shit, eh?” someone says, and when Claudia looks over she finds Cuchillos’ oldest girl slowly lowering a magazine from her face. Her back stiffens.

Claudia doesn’t have beef with a seventeen-year-old, but it’s close. Stephanie is a senior now, pretty, and she knows it. She also has a thing for Oscar, despite her string of non-gangbanging boyfriends. None of the Santos are stupid enough to go after Cuchillos’ daughter, except for maybe Santi, but even he hasn’t put the moves on her. Yet.

“I didn’t say that,” Claudia says, before she can stop herself.

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Your man likes that shit, no?”

“Oh god,” she hears Araceli say.

Claudia doesn’t like the way she says _your man_. Like she thinks it’s funny. Like she might have something to say about it. Claudia hasn’t been in a fight since tenth grade, when some white kid told her to go back to where she came from and she bloodied his nose, but she’s seriously considering another right now, despite Cuchillos watching in clear amusement. Figures he doesn’t take his daughter seriously. Or Claudia, but she knew that already. Anyway, he doesn’t owe her anything, even if he’s the closest thing to a father Oscar’s got. God. Oscar.

“He does,” Claudia says, fixing Stephanie with the dirtiest look she can manage. She knows she wants Oscar. She doesn’t think it’s cute. “Actually. How much would a name cost.”

Cuchillos grins. “For you, mija? I’ll cut you a deal.”

Which is how Claudia does maybe the stupidest thing in her entire life, which is impressive, considering her choices thus far. Araceli won’t shut up about it, even with a cotton ball pressed to her ear where her new piercing won’t stop bleeding.

“Is that normal?” Claudia says, shoulder throbbing.

“Are you for real,” Araceli says, not for the first time, “are you _high_? What’s he got you smoking?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Girl, you just got your man’s name on you,” she says, “ _permanently_. That shit don’t come off.”

“Ain’t that the point of a tattoo,” Claudia mutters, turning onto Oscar’s street. She probably shouldn’t be driving; she can feel her skin pull, just a little bit, whenever she turns. Araceli’s barely gotten the bleeding on her ear to stop, though, so she can drive herself home now while Claudia tries to pretend this wasn’t one of her worst decisions yet.

“I know you think the cross is sexy, or whatever, but nena. Don’t you know that’s bad luck?”

“What?”

“Getting someone’s name tattooed means it won’t last,” Araceli says, real grave, like she’s revealing some deep dark secret or something.

Claudia snorts. “According to who?”

“To everyone,” Araceli snaps, “just ‘cause he’s mad about you leaving—”

“I’m _just_ moving out—”

“—don’t mean you gotta be on some dumb shit, for God’s sake—”

“Okay,” Claudia says as they pull up the curb, Oscar on the front porch with Adrian and Chucho. She’s in a tank top. She might not have thought this out too well. “Hm. I’m fucked.”

“Yeah, he’s gonna like it,” Araceli says, and climbs out the car. Wiggles her fingers at Oscar and ignores Chucho trying to holler, swinging her hips as she comes around to the driver’s side. She rests her elbow over the window. “You getting out?”

“No,” Claudia says, but then Araceli opens the door and she gets out anyway. “Don’t be telling anybody why—”

“You really think some high school bitch is a match for you?” Araceli says, eyebrows raised. They’re the same shade as her roots. “Girl, shut the fuck up.”

Claudia steps back as she drives off. Watches for a moment before turning to find all three Diaz men watching _her_. She frowns. “What?”

“Why you in the street?” Oscar says. He’s smiling a little bit.

“Mind your business,” she says, and finally starts to head inside.

“What happened to your shoulder?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. He follows her inside anyway, Chucho and Adrian still bumming it out front.

“Is that plastic wrap?”

“Araceli wanted her ear pierced,” Claudia says, “where’s Cesar?”

“With his friends,” Oscar says, finally catching her around the waist. They step together for a moment, almost a dance. His hand is gentle on her arm. “What is that?”

She sighs. Puts her head against his chest. “Just look.”

“Why?”

“Just _look_ ,” she says again, and turns around. Her hair is up in a messy bun, her bra straps are showing, and she feels hot and sweaty. What she wants most is to take a nap. Instead of doing that, though, she stands perfectly still as Oscar carefully peels off the plastic wrap and little bit of gauze that Cuchillos had laughingly taped onto her. He inhales.

“Nena.”

“Yeah.”

He strokes the skin just under the tattoo. “You know how to clean it?”

“Soap and water…unscented lotion, no?”

“Mhm,” he says, steps close. Hands on her waist, thumb rubbing that little bit of skin showing between her tank and the back of her shorts. “Why’d you get it?”

“Pues,” she starts, but then he kisses the top of her shoulder, the side of her neck. She inhales deeply. “You like it?”

“Yeah,” he says, and she forgets why she thought it was a dumb idea in the first place.


	6. october, november, december.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is all about disappointing ur so and unsuccessfully kissing it better. yes im emo.

“Hey,” Claudia says, pleasantly surprised when Oscar shows up at her doorstep on a Friday. She doesn’t have classes on Thursdays, works at the library at school now, too, in addition to her nannying gig and the receptionist shit she can do with her eyes closed. She hasn’t seen Oscar since he helped her move in over a week ago; he and Araceli argued the whole time they struggled to get her mattress onto the second floor. Claudia strictly supervised.

Once Araceli had left, of course, they broke it in the only way they knew how, and Claudia hoped her neighbors hadn’t immediately started hating her.

The heat is finally starting to break, Halloween still a few weeks away. Before she left, Cesar had seriously explained to her his Power Ranger plans. She’s been looking for costumes for him ever since. She comes close to kiss Oscar, up on her tip-toes, and can tell immediately that he’s distracted. Notices Cesar afterwards, still lingering on the stairs for some reason, not even grossed out like he usually is.

“What’s up,” she says, looking between the two of them, and reaching out to Cesar so he knows he can get some love, too. Her arms are still around his shoulders when Oscar speaks.

“Can you do me a favor?” he says, and her eyebrows screw up.

“Yeah,” she says, even if she really should ask first. He’s tense in a way she rarely sees him—Oscar’s good at what he does. At running the show, despite the stakes. He doesn’t get nervous, not usually.

“Dope,” Oscar says, and she squints at him. Cesar’s little backpack is in his hand, full-looking, like there’s a pillow stuffed into it. “I gotta. A thing, for a few hours. Adrian’s coming with.”

“Oh,” Claudia says, “pues.” She swallows. She’s only really taken care of Cesar for the night at the Diaz house. Isn’t sure how it makes her feel, to have Oscar ready to drop him off at her place, the assumption that she’d say yes no matter what already there. She wants to ask what’s happening but can’t get the sentence right on her tongue. She says, instead, “Cesar, baby, come inside. Let me show you my room.”

She gives Oscar what she hopes is a significant look, and he steps in after her, closing the front door behind him while she gets Cesar settled in. She offers him her laptop, iTunes movie library pulled up for him, and then finds Oscar waiting in the living room. Part of her wants to be a little annoyed at the sudden babysitting request, but mostly she’s worried.

“You okay?” she says, and tries to come close to him. Runs her hand up his arm to his shoulder, curls her fingers around his when he catches it in his grip.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll be back tonight, Claudis. Don’t worry.”

“You want my key?” she says. Yoli’s out, and their other roommate, Dulce, went home to see her parents for the weekend.

Oscar looks at her for a long moment. He seems exhausted. Finally, he says, again, “Yeah,” even if he takes a moment to let go of her.

“I haven’t seen you in a minute,” she says, carefully, after she grabs her purse, digging through it and pulling her key off the chain.

Oscar says, “I know,” cupping her face with one hand and kissing her, briefly, before slipping the key into his back pocket. “I won’t be gone too long.”

“Okay,” she says, putting her hand over his, still watching him, “tené cuidado, mi amor.”

“I always do,” he lies. When he leaves, she watches him climb into his car from the window, chewing on her thumbnail all the while.

He gets back sometime during the night. Her bed is a full—two people can fit decently enough on it, but Cesar is a wild sleeper. It seems she’s only just gotten to sleep, on her side at the very edge of the bed, when the sound of her door opening wakes up.

“Yoli?” she says, half-awake. For a moment she forgets Oscar was even coming back.

“It’s me,” he says, a whisper, and then, when she starts to sit up, “lie down, nena, ahí voy.”

“There’s no space,” she says, and hears a huff, like he’s laughing.

“That’s Cesar for you,” he mutters. It’s dark in her room, but not dark enough that she can’t see him carefully rearrange Cesar into more of a log than a star, tucking himself into bed afterwards so that the both of them frame the kid like two parentheses. Like they’re taking care of him, even while they sleep.

“Estás bien?” she asks him. She remembers, too well, nights where she’d come in with butterfly bandages and alcohol with a bit of weed dropped in it. Remembers icing bruises on his face and carefully kissing around them. There’s no way to describe the ugly purple-yellow-green of healing bruise. It’s just something to get used to, running around in Freeridge.

“I’m fine,” he says, even if he doesn’t sound it. She reaches over Cesar to touch Oscar’s chest, and he flinches. She sits up on her elbow.

“Turn the light on.”

“Está durmiendo,” Oscar says. Voice flatter now. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, and tucks Cesar in better than Claudia did, like he knows Cesar can’t possibly sleep right without it. “This bed isn’t big enough.”

“I said that,” she says, and Oscar curls himself a little more securely around Cesar.

“Go to sleep.”

“You woke me up,” she says, just to be contrary, but sleep comes easily enough with Oscar back.

In the morning, she wakes up alone. Blinks sleep from her eyes and tries to remember why she feels so tired before it all comes back, Cesar warm and sleepy when she tucked him in and then Oscar, quiet and withdrawn, still trying to take care of him. When she inhales she smells cinnamon.

She finds Cesar having a serious conversation with Yoli, hair in a long braid down her back. They both have plates of French toast in front of them. When she looks up she catches Claudia’s eye.

“You didn’t tell me your man could cook,” Yoli says to her, and when she grins Claudia admires the little gap between her front teeth. To Oscar, she says, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He raises an eyebrow. Apron around his waist like he lives here or something. He says, “You talk about me, Claudis?”

“The neighbors sure do,” Yoli answers for her, and Claudia covers her face. She’d rather not deal with Oscar’s smug expression. Yoli takes a bite of her breakfast, says, “This is amazing.”

“Thanks,” Oscar says, and when he draws Claudia close he’s not distracted at all. Slips her some tongue when he kisses her good morning, Yoli giggling at them and Cesar complaining already. Claudia tries to let the memory of the night before fade.

* * *

It’s not the only time he pulls that, not even the most memorable. She ends up being the one to take Cesar and his friends trick-or-treating, borrows Dulce’s minivan and brings them out to La Avenida, too. Monse holds onto her hand the whole night, and she tries to imagine being that young without a mother. It aches.

Come November, for whatever reason, Santi decides they should throw a party for his nineteenth. Oscar tolerates it, good-natured, while Claudia grits her teeth. No way Leti will come over if Santi’s organized it, so Araceli shows up with pastel de tres leches instead, single for once and in a tight miniskirt. Adrian’s got his Real Chicana under his arm, her hair dyed a caramel brown and her lipstick a deep red. They disappear inside of the house not too long after it really gets bumping, Cesar running between people’s legs with little Ruby Martinez while his big brother—a freshman, she thinks—chatting with Chilango, who’s finally off house arrest.

Araceli, smelling blood in the water, goes straight after him. Judging off Chilango’s flustered reaction, he’s into it. Oscar wraps his arms around Claudia from behind, presses a kiss to her ear and just holding her. She carefully doesn’t think of the last time he did something like this.

“You having fun?” he asks her, voice low and intimate, and she shrugs.

“Are you? ‘S your party, ain’t it?”

“Sure,” he says. He’s been harder to reach, lately. Leaves Cesar with her once or twice a week, shows up to pick her up from class or work about as often. They’ll grab dinner to go and then head back to her place. Sometimes when she asks him things he lies. She can tell. She doesn’t like it. Can’t seem to make herself say it out loud. “Leti not coming over?”

She stiffens. Looks over at Santi, his arm around some girl Claudia’s heard him call _hoodrat_ before, grinning like he’s never done anything wrong in his life. She feels a little sick, suddenly. Says, not recognizing her own voice, “Not if Santi’s around.”

Oscar lets go of her. She glances at his face, sees that he’s uncomfortable. He says, “Right,” and rubs his chin. Checks his phone, and Claudia rolls her eyes.

“He calling you?”

“Nah,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You always say that,” she says. He stares at her.

“Always say what?”

“Don’t,” she says, and crosses her arms. Her shoulder’s mostly healed, skin no longer shiny like it was towards the end of October. Not completely healed, still a little fresh-looking, but when she twists in the mirror the letters are clear. _Oscar_ in all caps, not quite cursive but close. It looks good on her, she thinks. She wonders what everyone else does.

“Claudia,” he says, but then Chucho calls them over for shots. He looks at her for a long time before exhaling, and when she swallows down the tequila she doesn’t bother with the chaser. Never really saw the point.

She wants to know what’s going on in Oscar’s head. He’s hasn’t been this hard to read since before they started dating, back when they were still kids. She doesn’t feel much like a kid anymore, so caught up in the responsibilities of school and work and, lately, Oscar. He dropped product off with her the other day, kissed her hello and handed her a duffle, then disappeared for three days. She spent them all chewing her nails bloody. Barely slept, couldn’t eat, hounded after Adrian when he came by to pick it up.

“Where’s Oscar?”

“No te dijo?” he asked. He looked bored but nosy, standing in her living room like Oscar did that first time, the duffle stupid heavy in her grip. She felt exposed. Like she should’ve known. Adrian never makes her feel comfortable, sure, but he made her feel stupid, that day. Like she was the only one out of the loop. Adrian shrugged. “Don’t worry ‘bout it then,” he told her, and marched back down the stairs like it was nothing.

Yoli had asked when they were going to see more of Oscar. Claudia wishes she had an answer.

Even today, standing in his backyard, she feels like she can’t find him. She watches him mingle, puts her arm around his waist, kisses him with her eyes closed—he feels far away anyway. A little different, moves differently, not like how he was when she was still living here, even if she hasn’t been gone all that long.

He catches her watching. Says, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, beer lukewarm in her grip. Throws his question back at him—“You having fun?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he says, and pulls her close again. They don’t fit together right today. “’Course I am.”

The party ends late, not that Claudia expected any different. Araceli bailed with Chilango not too long after it started to get dark out, leaving her to awkwardly ignore La Oveja as he tried to talk about heading to El Salvador one of these days while Oscar put Cesar to bed.

She’s exhausted by the end of it—working three jobs, even if none of them are a full twenty hours a week, has her on edge, and that’s before factoring in her classes. She’s glad she tested out of a bunch of shit. She doesn’t think she could handle a fifth class right now. Oscar doesn’t even bother with wrapping her up in sheets like he likes doing, crawls into bed after her the second the house finally falls silent.

The night feels too still. Claudia’s not sure she likes it.

“You ever think of getting outta here?” Claudia whispers, the lights out and everything feeling very small and very close to her. Oscar curls up behind her, arm over her waist and his breath fanning across the back of her neck. She thinks she could feel safe. “Not like. Not just Freeridge. All of LA.”

“And do what?” Oscar says, his voice sleep-soft. He’s so warm.

“Dunno,” she says, “just seems like something we could do, y’know? You and me, sabés? Cesar can go to school anywhere.”

“He’s got his friends here,” he mumbles against her skin.

“Mm,” she says. “I been looking at schools.”

“Yeah?” He sounds half-asleep.

“Yeah,” she says. Can barely hear herself. “You think you’d like San Diego?”

“’S long as I’m witchu, nena,” he says, and Claudia can’t think of anything good to say in response before sleep gets to them both.

* * *

Oscar asks, “Whatchu want for Christmas?” and Claudia manages to spill dirty water all over herself.

“Fucking—Oscar, por Dios,” she says, half-turning around from the sink, “don’t _do_ that.”

“Do what,” he says, coming near and turning off the water while she looks down herself. Her shirt is soaked.

“Sneak up on me.”

“I live here,” he says, eyebrows raised, “I don’t need to sneak around nowhere.”

“Hombre,” she says, and can’t help but smile when he goes to kiss her.

“Stop smiling,” he says, like his dimple isn’t showing too, “I’m tryna kiss you.”

“You’re annoying,” she says, and kisses him again, doesn’t pull away until she hears the sound of Cesar’s footsteps coming down the hall.

“Why are you guys always gross?” Cesar says, the sight of Claudia and Oscar looking at each other like lovestruck fools too much for him, apparently.

“C,” Oscar says, no doubt about to start a lecture on what is and isn’t rude. Claudia, personally, is trying hard not to laugh at Cesar’s little scrunched up face.

“You ready for school tomorrow?” Claudia interrupts, and Cesar sighs.

“Yeah.”

“It’s the day before break,” Oscar reminds him, “why you mad?”

“I’m not,” Cesar says, then sighs again. “I wish it was the weekend already.”

“Aw,” Claudia says, “no te preocupés, querido. Tomorrow will pass quick.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but there’s not too much either of them can say to convince him otherwise. One of those things he has to just trust them about—like Oscar being able to take care of him, most days. This, at least, feels like something that isn’t a lie.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Oscar says, later, when the dishes are all washed and Claudia’s wearing a dry shirt—one of Oscar’s, of course. He’s braiding her hair, like he always does, even if he pretends he doesn’t like to do it. His hands are gentle.

“Cuál?”

“Christmas presents,” he says. “Don’t say money for books.”

“That’d be a good present, querido,” she says, mindlessly flipping through channels. Nothing good is ever on when she actually has time for TV.

“For real,” he says, sweeping her hair back, undoing the braid and pressing his thumbs against the knobby line of her spine. She lets her head fall back.

“Why you worried?”

“I wanna get something you like,” he says.

 _I like you_ , Claudia thinks. Is she allowed to ask for his time? She hasn’t crashed over here since the day of his birthday party. Can’t decide if it’s easier or harder to be here since moving out. Earlier in the month, he took three days to answer a message she sent and then showed up with flowers like she’d forget. That was another argument she wants to stop thinking about. It feels like she shouldn’t though; like it means something, one way or another.

“Where you been?” she asked. Arms crossed in the doorway to her unit, Oscar looking charming, like she was going to fall for it.

“Nena,” he said, not an answer. She usually knew better than to ask things he couldn’t honestly answer her. Maybe both of them were thinking it.

“’S been a minute,” she said, “since I last even heard from you. Wasn’t sure I needed to be waiting for something.”

“Claudia,” he said, and tried to step close. “I ain’t mean to disappear like that. Shit came up.”

“You gonna leave Cesar with me again?” she asked. She still remembers how _mad_ she felt. How she couldn’t help but clench her teeth, trying to figure out just who she was dealing with. She doesn’t think she’s a needy person. But who the fuck likes feeling ignored? “’S been a week. Longer than usual, eh?”

“Hey,” he said, and he sounded mad that time. She wondered what they looked like, if she came across as serious as she felt. If Oscar took her serious at all, the two of them talking around something that neither of them could win.

She lets the memory fade. Feels the irritation sitting in her, an undercurrent in her veins that doesn’t fade even with Oscar next to her how she likes best. Just the two of them unwinding. Nothing about life getting in the way. It only gets that way because they let it—maybe she needs to work on it, too. Or maybe he should let her in a little more.

But then—well. Nothing about her life is too safe as it is, is it? That’s just Freeridge. She doesn’t want all the secrets but she wants a little honesty from him. That’s probably not the best thing to ask for on Christmas, though.

She says, “Whatchu thinking? I’ll let you know if I hate it.”

“It’s a _gift_ ,” Oscar says, giving up on her braid, “you can’t just hate it.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” she says, grinning up at him a little, “I’ll tell you if it’s a bad idea.”

“I’m not gonna get you anything, vas a ver.”

“That’s fine,” Claudia says, and puts the TV remote down, lets some weird cartoon play. Crawls up onto the couch beside him, rests her elbow over the back so she can lean against him, too. Doesn’t matter how she’s feeling about him in the moment—she always wants to be close. She should work on that, too, probably.

Oscar says, “What, so you can throw it in my face next year? ‘You didn’t even get me anything for Christmas, you out here acting a fool—’”

 “You’re _always_ acting a fool,” she says. They both are. Hell, she is right now, trying not to be mad when she should be. Trying to hold onto this man like he’s not planning on being a Santo the rest of his life, however long that is. She’s read the reports. She watches the news. Men like him don’t always last, and when they do, it’s not always worth it. Worst part is she thinks he is, though. Can’t imagine him any other way, can’t see herself wanting him more than she already does. She wants to be mad but all she is is worried. She wants to know what it means.

 _I love you_ is on the tip of her tongue. Like usual, she doesn’t let herself say it.


	7. january.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not to self-promote or whatever but this is where [la hora de los silencios](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421698) fits into my own canon lol feel free to check it out :) also yes i lifted my own dialogue and yes i accidentally posted an incomplete version of this yesterday, whoops.

Later, Claudia will think that maybe all of this is her fault.

And it isn’t, and she knows that, but it still feels that way, anyway. It starts with a promise Oscar breaks and ends with him in jail for the weekend. It starts like this:

Claudia wants to transfer to Point Loma Nazarene. Had quietly filled out all the transfer applications, spoken to counselors, been told that once she submitted her first semester grades they could probably offer such-and-such (the number wasn’t as high as the tuition, but it was enough to make Claudia see stars) and in the meantime, would she like to visit the campus?

She thought it would be nice, is all. The three of them on a mini trip. Maybe get Cesar to see something outside of Freeridge for once, have some fun in San Diego in between her checking out campus. Oscar had even agreed, despite the way their conversations about her leaving for school the next year were going. She wasn’t being subtle when she talked about how nice living somewhere new would be. It was obvious, not just in the way she’d steer their conversations towards it but in the tense line of Oscar’s shoulders when she did it.

So they made weekend plans, found a cheap hotel to stay for the night, and Claudia packed a weekend bag in preparation. Part of her was giddy. Part of her was convinced it wasn’t going to happen. Her gut feelings were usually right.

Oscar calls her Thursday afternoon. She’s on her way home from work; she’s skipping two classes the next day, okayed it with her instructors, and maybe she has a spring in her step, walking to her building from the bus stop.

“Hey,” Oscar says, voice too-serious over the phone, “you busy?”

“Just got home,” she says, adjusting her satchel—harder to steal a cross-body bag, she knows. La Avenida is nice but that doesn’t mean the buses are great. “What’s up?”

“I can’t come with this weekend,” he says, and she stops in her tracks. Stands, stunned, in the hallway of her building. “Something came up.”

“What?”

“Cuchillos wants—he needs me out here, this weekend. Don’t worry about it.”

Claudia doesn’t give a fuck about what Cuchillos wants or needs, and she should say that, but instead what comes out is, “What do you _mean_?”

“What I say?” he says, voice still oddly flat, none of that usual teasing tone he uses with her, “I can’t take you to San Diego. Si quieres, I can buy your bus tickets, but—”

“We’ve been planning this for weeks,” she says, moving again now, needing to be in the comfort of her room where she can lose it in peace, “how you just gonna dip like that?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Oscar, please,” she says, and maybe her voice breaks. Inside her apartment it’s still quiet. “You said—”

“I know what I said,” he snaps, and then, when she stays quiet, “whatchu want me to do?”

“I wish you’d just fucking _listen_ to me,” she says. The words come fast. “All this fucking talk, sabés, ‘bout how you want better for Cesar, how you tired of living like this, y pa’ qué? Cuchillos comes calling and it’s like you’re a fucking dog.”

“I—”

“No,” she says, “no, I’mma fucking speak for once, since it’s clear I been quiet for too long. You proud of your life?” The harder days don’t go away. She remembers cleaning him up, bloody and bruised, she remembers what it was like, that first time he got arrested. “Is this how you wanna live, Oscar? You got a fucking kid. You out gangbanging, and you have a _kid_. Is that all Cesar’s gonna be? Is that all _you_ wanna be?”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, and she laughs, an ugly, harsh sound. She feels like she’s about to lose it, all alone in her room and her idiot gangbanger boyfriend breaking her heart.

“You got a _choice_ ,” she insists, “you _always_ have a choice, especially now, Oscar, when you got as much responsibility as you do. This isn’t—this isn’t the only shit you been pulling, alright, the past six months been—”

A lot. Everything. Too much and not enough all at once, having Oscar closer than she ever had and then watching him pull away in the aftermath. She’s only human. She’s not sure how either of them are supposed to survive this. Part of her is still afraid one of them won’t.

“What,” he says, voice harsh now, “ _what_ , they been what? If I remember correctly you was living with me for part of them, so—”

She wants to rip her hair out. Doesn’t want him to make her say it. Says, instead, “What did we do, eh, those two or three months I was living witchu? I was busy taking care of Cesar while _you_ ran around with your fucking Santos—”

“How you think I get shit paid for?” he says, too loud over the phone, “You think they’re gonna hire me, looking like this?”

“Why the fuck did you get that cross!” she shouts, voice echoing in her room. The neighbors probably hate her. “And don’t say shit about me liking it, alright, fuck you, you shoulda known better—”

“Fuck me? Fuck you!” It’s enough to make her shut up again. Last time he sounded like this was after his arrest, that first year they were dating. “You out here talking all that woo-woo like you ain’t been out here this whole time—”

“I’m not some fucking hoodrat,” she hisses, and tears well in her eyes, “I’m your girl, a _Santos_ ’ girl, and I know what that means. I’m trying to be more than that, fuck, and I thought you wanted that, too!”

Oscar says nothing.

She says, the words physically painful to get out, “You ain’t shit, Diaz, and I don’t know why I spend so much time trying to pretend it isn’t true.”

When she hangs up on him she expects that to be it. She’ll head to San Diego on her own, maybe borrow a car or bus, and then when she gets back Sunday morning he’ll come calling with flowers like he’s taken a liking to doing, lately. Instead he shows up within the hour, looking contrite. She almost shuts the door in his face.

“Who’d you send instead,” she says, bored. He looks hurt.

“Santi owed me a favor,” he says, and she barely suppresses an eye roll. She’s tired of this—the favors, the gangbangers at his beck and call. She doesn’t want to live like this anymore. It’s exhausting, the looking over her shoulder, the Oscar transforming into someone she doesn’t want to know.

Of course they get into it. Of course they wind up in bed, anyway. But the next morning, Oscar doesn’t come with her to San Diego. On Saturday they arrest him on drug charges, and on Sunday she hears about it from Leti, who’s been trying to get ahold of her since the day before but who got knocked on her ass by Santi when he came by with the news.

“I’m fine,” Leti says, like there isn’t a shadow of a bruise across her jaw. “I bricked his car, I’m fine,” and then catches Claudia when she stumbles into their house.

* * *

Araceli comes in clutch, if telling Claudia to dump Oscar’s sorry ass and then offering to let her borrow her car can be considered that.

“It’s his second strike,” Araceli says. Her arms are crossed. Despite her words, she looks worried as hell. Dark roots, lipstick smudged, Chilango on his way out when Leti dropped her off. Claudia couldn’t even appreciate the sheer hilarity of the Mata siblings driving off together. She still feels a little shaky. “What they get him for?”

“I don’t know,” Claudia says, feeling very far away, “Leti said he was in the middle of a job.”

“Who told her?”

“Santi.”

Araceli scoffs. It sounds more like she’s getting ready to spit. Claudia shakes herself; wills herself to get out of this weird in-between space she’s suddenly inhabiting, the thought of Oscar locked up in a cell somewhere making her feel like she’s about to buzz right out of her skin.

“Chilango didn’t tell you anything?” She sounds desperate. She doesn’t like it.

“No,” Araceli says, and looks sorry about it, “he just said they grabbed him. Didn’t say why. ‘S not my business, anyway.”

“Right,” Claudia says. She wonders if anyone besides Leti would have bothered to tell her. “Shit. Quién tiene Cesar?”

Araceli inhales sharply. “Son of a—quien lo tenía? Adrian, probably, right?”

“Has Adrian had him this whole time, you think?” Claudia should—she should probably make sure Cesar is accounted for, considering it’s Sunday and as far as she’s heard the judge hasn’t even seen Oscar yet. Which means she has no idea what his bail is going to be, if they even let him post it, and probably none of his punk ass Santos are going to have the cash for it.

Araceli bites her lip, shrugs, and when Claudia puts her head down on the table she comes close to rub her shoulders. “I’m sorry, hon.”

“Fuck,” she says. What else is there to say? She lifts her head again, takes a deep breath, and accepts the cafecito she’s offered. It’s sweet but not milky, burning the tip of her tongue. She downs it all quickly. She says, “I need to go get Cesar,” and stands up.

“And do what?” Araceli says. She’s sitting across the table from her, her own coffee untouched, worried for Claudia more than for Oscar.

“I can’t just leave him with Adrian.”

“Querida,” she says, slowly. Like she knows she’s going to say something Claudia won’t like. “You know Cesar ain’t yours, right?”

Claudia stares at her.

Araceli rubs her face. Says, “I know you love Cesar. But he’s not your responsibility.”

“And?” Claudia says. She wonders what expression Araceli’s seeing. She feels a little weak, horrified, confused. Everything at once. “What, so he should stay with fucking Adrian, who’s been gangbanging since he was _thirteen_?”

“Oscar wasn’t much older,” Araceli says, and Claudia’s hands hit the table too loudly.

“What are you saying?”

Araceli keeps her head up. “Are you surprised? Like, this’s always been something that Oscar coulda done, no? Him getting locked up.”

“That don’t mean—” Claudia doesn’t know what to say.

“This is his life,” Araceli says, and for a second Claudia thinks this must be how Oscar felt during their argument on Thursday. It aches. “They ain’t about to let him off lightly this time, nena, it’s his _second strike_. There’s no way he’s not spending at least a year in the joint. You can’t—you can’t just wait for him, girl, you got a fucking life to live.”

“Who said anything about that?” Claudia demands, “You just said you don’t know—”

“I’m not stupid,” she snaps, “I know how this shit _works_ , Claudis, and I don’t wanna see you drop everything to take care of his kid for him when he’s been gone the past few months—”

“He hasn’t been anywhere.”

“So he ain’t ignored none’a your calls? Your messages? Ain’t been showing up for food and a little bit of ass, like you ain’t nothing but a hoodrat only he gets to touch?”

Claudia reels back like she’s been smacked.

“You talk all this shit,” Araceli, and her voice wavers, a little bit, like it hurts her just to say it, too, “but you always forgive him. Pa’ qué? They got him again. There’s no way they won’t give him at least a year or two this time. You got more _sense_ than this, you deserve better, Claudia, and I—fuck, I actually like Oscar!” She rubs her face, uncaring of the way her eyeliner smudges. “I just. I don’t want you to do something stupid.”

Claudia swallows. Says, “I gotta go see Cesar,” and her voice sounds wrecked, too.

“Take my keys,” Araceli says, dully. “I’m off tomorrow, I don’t need the car,” and watches with sad eyes as Claudia rushes out of the house.

Cesar’s not at home. Adrian shrugs, says he sent him over to the Martinez place for the day, that he’s got to go see Cuchillos and figure out what the move is. Santi, God damn him, is unfortunately there when she shows up.

“Thought you ran off,” he says to her, smoking a joint on the front lawn of the Diaz home like it’s his house now, too. He’s looking her up and down a little more brazenly than usual. Oscar being gone makes him bold.

Adrian is shaking his head, like he already knows Santi’s about to be on some bullshit. He always is. Claudia’s not in the mood to ignore it today.

“Thought _you_ was gonna be around to help Oscar,” she snaps right back. The keys are clenched in her hand, twisted in her grip like she could slash at somebody. Santi’s looking like a good target, oversized white tee on, head freshly buzzed so that she can see the still scabby Santos cross sticking out over the back of his collar.

He bares his teeth. Coos. “What’s wrong, nena? You worried about Spooky?”

“He just got _arrested_ ,” she snaps. Can’t help herself, hates that it’s only making Santi grin more, amused that she’s pissed off. He don’t take nobody seriously. “And what’s this, eh, about you throwing Leti around? Sandra on Fourth not putting out no more o qué? Needed to feel like a man again?”

His face twists up. He stands, says, “That how Oscar lets you talk, nena? ‘Cause I ain’t about to let some bitch think she runs the show.”

“Don’t nobody _let me_ do shit,” she says, and backs up towards the car when he starts walking over. Santi’s taller than Oscar. Adrian’s loyal to the Santos. She’s by herself in a borrowed car and Santi’s never liked her.

“You scary, huh?” Santi says, following after her. He looks angry.

She picks up the pace, climbs into the driver’s seat. She tries to hit it in reverse but Santi’s shitty car is behind her and she’s not about to fuck up Araceli’s ride. He stands too close to the front of the car for her to pull out like she wants to, and she leans on the horn.

“Get the fuck out my way,” she shouts, louder than she feels, pretending she’s not convinced Santi’s about to beat her ass in front of the whole block.

“Get out the car, nena,” Santi says, “I know you borrowed it from Araceli, I’ll pay her a visit, too.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she says, honks again when he tries to get close.

He shakes his head, laughs. Adrian stays watching, eyebrows pulled together. Serious, like he’s worried about where this might go. No doubt he doesn’t want to have to explain whatever mess Santi’s about to make. Claudia swallows.

Santi says, grinning like he’s had one too many hits, “When I’m done with you, nena, you won’t even remember Oscar’s name,” and she floors it.

The car clips his hip and he goes tumbling. She turns the wheel, sharp, not trying to kill him, but definitely not caring if she broke his leg. She hears Adrian’s _Oh shit!_ and doesn’t stop, driving down the block too fast. She sees the two of them in the rearview mirror, Santi still yelling, and tries not to feel _good_. Her heart is still beating too fast, and she thinks her hands might be shaking, but a laugh bubbles up out of her anyway.

When she gets to the Martinez’s place, Mario’s outside with some of his friends. He asks, “Yo, what happened to your front light?” and she can’t help but laugh again, too hysteric, Cesar’s face when he comes outside to find her just another nail in the coffin.

* * *

She’s the one who picks up Oscar. She posts his bond money and walks right back out to Araceli’s car, pretending like the numbers they read to her didn’t make her want to puke. One of the officers watched her with sad eyes, just like Araceli’s. She’s surprised she didn’t get pulled aside and told she’s playing herself.

Claudia knows she is.

The rest of them were just bored, and she didn’t want them to see her and Oscar together. Like if they did she was proving something right about herself, or about Oscar, or about all the other Spics in LA. She doesn’t want any part of it, so she sits in the car with the windows rolled down, AC off because she’s wasted enough gas as is.

Oscar hesitates when he gets to her. Looks around like he might need to hitch another ride, and she clenches her jaw. Makes a show of unlocking the doors for him.

He says, voice rough, “You want me to drive?”

“No,” she says, staring straight ahead. Part of her wants to get her hands all over him—make sure he’s not hurt, that he’s still the Oscar who dropped her off at the bus station, make sure he’s _real_ —but a lot of her wants to knock him out. Preferably with the car; she’s got to pay for one headlight anyway, she might as well replace both. Leti had called her the night before and, after hearing the full story, laughed until she cried, no doubt from relief that Santi hadn’t actually gotten to her.

Santi’s pissed. Claudia doesn’t care.

For all she knows he’s out to get her, but first he’ll need to rest up for a month. Apparently his pelvis fractured. Part of it is hilarious, but again, Claudia doesn’t really care. If he comes after her, he comes after her. She’ll hit him again if she needs to. Maybe this time she’ll do it better.

She tells Oscar as much, car still in park, the tension between them thick. “Whatever Santi tells you,” she says, “probably ain’t too far from the truth.”

“What happened?” She can feel his gaze on the side of her head.

She starts the car. “I hit him,” she says, plainly, “no viste la luz? Adrian had to take him to Urgent Care.”

“You _hit_ him?” She finally looks at Oscar. The worried eyebrows, the downturned mouth.

“With the car,” she confirms, and finally pulls out of the parking lot. “I’m fine.”

“Are you— _what_?” he says. “What happened?”

“He pissed me off,” she says, flat. “This weekend’s been rough.” She sees him flinch.

“Claudis—”

“Don’t,” she says. To her horror, she sounds choked up. He reaches out to her, like he wants to offer some sort of comfort, before just letting his hands drop to his lap. He takes a deep breath. Her voice is shaking. “How could you be so _stupid_?”

He says her name again, but she just shakes her head.

“This is your second strike,” she says, and it’s like Araceli’s sitting right next to her. Maybe she’s right, even if Claudia doesn’t want to admit it. “You know how much your bail was?”

“Why didn’t Adrian—”

“I wasn’t about to owe him shit,” she snaps. “Two thousand dollars, Oscar, that’s all my fucking savings.”

It was more than that. It was more than that, and he knows it, and she can’t believe they have to have this conversation. Her eyes burn.

“Then you shoulda—”

“ _What_ ,” she says, “let you stay in there? What the fuck your lawyer say?” When he opens his mouth she cuts him off. “No, sabés que, I don’t wanna hear it. Jesus fucking Christ, Oscar. What’s the charge?”

“Distribution,” he says. He doesn’t sound sufficiently cowed. Claudia fantasizes, however briefly, about driving into a pole.

She takes a deep breath, willing it to calm her down. It doesn’t quite do the job, and part of her is glad for it. She says, “And what are we gonna do about Cesar, huh? You ever think of that?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he says. When they reach a red light, she looks at him. Both have their jaws clenched, and she shakes her head again, hits her fist against the steering wheel. Laughs a little. Wonders what she could have done differently. Wonders what sixteen-year-old her would think, with a man like the one Oscar’s becoming. Wonders what her mom would say.

“What are we supposed to do now,” she says, the light turning green. She turns her head away from him. Next to her, Oscar says nothing.


	8. february, march, april.

All of February stretches like a bad dream. Claudia watches Oscar get up in the mornings and stays in bed while he gets ready for court, doesn’t answer when he asks her if she’s coming with.

He says, “Can you take Cesar to school for me?” and she says yes, and waits until he leaves to get herself ready. Her limbs feel heavy, eyes dull when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She hasn’t felt this way since her mother died, that first year an endless march of doing what had to be done and gritting her teeth the whole while. She was only twelve when cancer killed her mother. Twelve and by herself for the first time in her life. Only a few memories stick out; the slow, methodical way she packed her clothes, Araceli explaining how the Santos and Prophets ran things, and Oscar, nearly thirteen and shaggy-haired, letting her cheat off a test.

She tries to focus on that last memory. Cesar looks so much like a young Oscar it aches. She thinks she might have been crying, the day she and Oscar first interacted. She failed that exam, actually. It was six months to the day her mother died. Her then-foster dad had a temper, and she couldn’t figure out how she was supposed to keep living. It wasn’t like it was an act of mercy, Oscar offering her his test, but it made the day a little better. She can’t get that feeling of relief back, try as she might, at least not before hearing Cesar wake up.

She hasn’t had a real conversation with Araceli in a minute, either. Their last conversation—or argument, or discussion, or whatever they’re calling it—still stings, even if it’s not too far off from what she and Oscar had been yelling at each other about before the arrest. It just _feels_ different, Araceli telling her Cesar’s not her responsibility like Claudia hasn’t been helping Oscar run around after him for two and a half years now, has known the kid even longer than that.

Christ. She’s known Cesar since he was maybe four or five, just a little baby, practically, missing a tooth and as good-natured a child as any. Sometimes used to run into the two of them at the nearest grocery store, or just walking around Freeridge, whether she was on her own looking for some time away from everyone or bumming it with Araceli. Araceli, who had whispered in her ear after Oscar had said hi to them, early autumn of their freshman year after he found her at the park.

“He’s a Santo,” she said, hair still brown back then, longer than she has it now, “his folks is all Santos, too. I hear his dad’s in the joint.”

“Who told you that?” Claudia said, still watching him walk away from them, socks pulled up like the rest of his crew. Him being a Santo wasn’t really surprising; she had figured he had to at least be affiliated, and if his father was locked up, well. That was an answer, too.

Araceli tutted at her, like wanting a source was the worst thing to ask for. “Snitches get stitches,” she reminded her.

Claudia smiled with all her teeth. “Thought it was talk shit, get hit?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, niña,” Araceli told her, and that was that. She nearly lost her mind the first time Oscar came to sit with them during their lunch period—not his, of course. They started a food fight, once, arguing over something dumb. Claudia thinks it might’ve been about the Angels, but what she remembers most is their twin looks of horror when someone’s applesauce ended up smeared down the front of her shirt, both of them falling over themselves to offer her something else to wear.

Usually, remembering them as kids—real kids, not as hardened, still playing at being real people—makes her grin. Today she finds herself straining when she smiles at Cesar, like her hugs aren’t as warm as they’re supposed to be. All her motions feel mechanical, just to get through the day. Her and Oscar aren’t quite fighting, but it’s close. Every conversation seems to be double-sided. They say one thing and mean another, speak via silences.

Lately—and Claudia hates to think it, hates to feel it, doesn’t want to admit it to anyone, not even Leti—she feels very alone. She hates how at odds she is with herself, and with Oscar, and with what she wants to be. Araceli was right. She’s always known there could’ve been another charge coming his way. But she wasn’t prepared for it, and maybe that’s her own fault, but it’s the truth.

When they can bear to talk about it—not _argue_ —Claudia tries to make peace with the fact that Oscar might get ten years. Probably he’ll get half of that, but. There’s always a chance. He’s got a record, he’s gangbanging, the judge might decide to make an example out of him. It doesn’t feel like a second strike, mostly because all that does is remind Claudia of the ways he might fuck up again after. Sleep comes in fits, whether she’s in her bed or in Oscar’s, their limbs almost touching but not quite. She doesn’t feel like herself. Doesn’t feel like anything, can’t seem to make herself come back from wherever it is she’s gone.

She goes to work, goes to class, tries to make sense of what her life is going to look like for the next year, or two, or ten. When Cesar asks how her day has been she lies, and when Oscar asks she tries to figure out what he wants to hear.

He picks her up, same day after court, and she asks, “What they say?”

“Don’t worry,” he tells her, leaning against the driver’s door, same as always. She knows how this works. Has seen it from him before, from Chilango last year, from enough men in Freeridge that she can almost guarantee herself another three months with him before he’s gone for however long.

He straightens up, takes a step closer to her. Looks unsure for a minute, and then she steps close, too, and wraps her arms around his waist. The silence, this time, doesn’t quite sting.

* * *

Santi, at least, ain’t been around lately, which is a relief all by itself.

Adrian’s taken to treating her a little different, though. Like he might respect her, just a little bit, now that she’s proven that she doesn’t care about some of the consequences of their life. Maybe he respects her not giving a fuck the day she hit Santi. That shouldn’t mean much, nor is it anything she really wants, but considering Adrian’s general apathy for anything and everything? It’s more significant than she wants to admit.

He watches her, now. Not like the others have, not like Santi or la Oveja or even Oscar. He watches her like he knows what _she_ knows, like she’s more than just his cousin’s girl. Like he might need to come after her, later, after Oscar’s sentenced, just to set the record straight. It has her on edge, and it’s not like she’s been sleeping right the last month, stressing over Oscar and her-and-Oscar and just her.

Oscar says Adrian’ll take over. Going to move in after Claudia moves out. Just thinking about it makes her nauseous. She’ll be living there for the summer, which was her plan anyway, but she was expecting Oscar to be there _with_ her. She wasn’t expecting to be single-handedly raising a kid for a few months, either; she can’t even say what she’d do, if she had any other option. She got into it with Araceli again when they brought it up. Same argument as last time, Araceli frantic.

“The fuck you mean, you used up all your savings?”

“I’m still working,” Claudia pointed out, “I still have money coming in.”

“And summer classes?”

Claudia said, quiet, “I’m not taking any.”

Araceli made a noise, like she was going to hack something up. “When d’you hear back about transferring?”

“Soon,” she said. “Before the end of the semester.”

“Okay,” Araceli said, clearly pissed, knowing Claudia wasn’t admitting that she couldn’t afford to take the two classes she wanted to get out of the way and knowing, too, that it was because she had spent the money bailing Oscar out. They went back and forth for a little while, not saying what they both knew to be true, until Araceli said, “You really gonna live your life paying for this muthafucker’s shit? How long he gonna be in and outta jail, huh, before they lock him up for good? What happens when he knocks your dumbass up?”

From there it hadn’t gotten any better. Now Claudia’s facing down a summer she’ll probably spend alone, working and playing house like Oscar had wanted last year.

“They won’t come around,” Oscar tells her. They’re sitting in the kitchen, Claudia paying her bills on her laptop, March upon them already. Fat Tuesday and paczki on a plate in front of her, half-eaten, Claudia sucking on her fingertips to get what little bit of powdered sugar has stuck to her nails. “You listening?”

“Yeah,” she says, crossing off another item from her list. “They paying the bills?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. He’s watching her, real serious, while she tries to pretend she doesn’t notice. “They won’t come around.”

“Not to see Cesar?”

Oscar doesn’t answer right away. He sounds uncomfortable, when he speaks. “He’s real little, still.”

“Still blood,” she says, voice a little flatter than she means it to be. She takes a deep breathe.

“I can pay you back,” he says, and she bristles.

“I don’t want your money,” she snaps. “They’ll gimme mine back after—”

After he’s sentenced. They stare at each other for a long moment. They both know it’s what she’s thinking, and there’s a look of hurt on Oscar’s face. She looks away first, brings a hand to her face to rub over her jaw. Touches her hair.

“When you got court next,” she says, instead, and nods along when he answers. A faux sense of calm spreads over her. It feels quotidian, the two of them sitting at the table discussing shit like this. She hates it. Hates that they used to do this, too, over the summer, Oscar out gangbanging and her convinced that it was sustainable.

She hasn’t heard back from Point Loma Nazarene yet. Applied to another two schools down there, but she likes that one, best. Had a good time looking at the campus, talking to advisors, up until the second she got back and the world came crashing down around her. Except for how it didn’t—she has to keep on living. Is maybe doing her best, which isn’t much. She's a ghost in her own life. Oscar’s noticed it. Leti’s noticed it. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to about it.

She says, because it’s the only memory left that doesn’t make her breakdown, “You remember how we met?”

“Yeah,” he says. Not sure what she’s going for. “Seventh grade.”

“Nah,” Claudia says, “that wasn’t…when we met for real. Summer before freshman year.”

His eyes are so dark. Part of her wants to look at him all day. A larger part, lately, wants to hide away. He says, again, “Yeah.”

She doesn’t know what she’s going for. It just feels important, suddenly, to remember the good times they’ve had, too.

Oscar scoots his chair close to her. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, kisses her jaw. Presses his mouth to her neck, after. She takes a deep breath. Says, “I’m gonna head home, soon,” and won’t look at him when he stops to look at her.

“You sure?” he says. His thumb strokes over her cheekbone. Gentle.

She finally meets his gaze. “Yeah,” she says, but then kisses him, carefully. Like how she should have kissed him that first time, when they were sixteen. Not rushed, not so angry she had literally just stopped yelling at him. Just his mouth against hers, their breathing soft, in sync. Like something out of a love story, maybe. Claudia doesn’t think that would be too bad.

* * *

“What’s the move,” Adrian says, April weather heating up and Claudia not expecting anyone. It’s early, still, and she’s supposed to be getting ready for work. There’s a sliced mango on the table for her, not sweet like the ones June brings, and she stares at him for a long moment.

Adrian, she’s pretty sure, is a cousin from Oscar’s mother’s side. Chucho’s from the other. All dumbasses, Leti’s said, but really, it just means they’re cut from the same cloth. Maybe none of them ever had the chance. He doesn’t look much like Oscar, even if he’s got dimples. Oscar, for all his being known as _Spooky_ , is quick to laugh. Adrian’s got a real serious look to him, always, even if he’s got eyelashes Araceli would kill for. He lives for the Santos. He’ll probably die for them, too.

“Que querés,” she says, slowly. Her roommates are still asleep. It’s not even nine yet.

“Spooky don’t want you on the bus,” he says. He sounds bored, but his eyes are bright. Curious. She’s not sure how to describe the unsettled feeling that’s lodged itself in her throat, so that words can’t come. She’s always been able to tell when people aren’t telling her the truth. It’s a good skill, even if it pisses her off more often than not.

“I been bussing all year,” she says. Feels her eyebrows pull together.

Adrian shrugs. “What time you start?”

“Ten,” she says. “Why?”

He bares his teeth. A smile with the dimples, even. “Cuchillos wants to see you, nena. I’ll drive you.”

 “What?”

“You moving into his right hand’s house,” he drawls, “raising a future Santo. What, you think you was just gonna play house like you ain’t ‘bout to be eating on our dime?”

“I have a job,” she says, louder than she needs to be. She flinches, after. Doesn’t want to think about Cesar like that, doesn’t like how easy it was to get her loud today. So different from this quietness she’s been living in. Something she’s not prepared for. Adrian still looks curious, an undercurrent of amusement there. None of them have ever taken her seriously. Lately she doesn’t think there are any exceptions to that.

“You know how ‘s gonna go,” he says. He’s still standing in her doorway. She wants to slam the door in his face. She doesn’t. He jerks his head a little bit, says, “Vamos. Might as well do it now.”

“And if I wasn’t home?” she says, “Were you just gonna wait?”

“I knew you was home,” he says, shrugging, and takes a step back. “C’mon. Cuchillos is waiting.”

“I—”

“I’m not here to argue witchu,” he says, all good cheer—what little there was—gone now. “Let’s go, nena. I got other shit to do today.”

He’s watching her real seriously. She can see Oscar in his face, just a little bit. Sees more of Cesar. She says, “Fine,” and doesn’t even bother grabbing her mango. Walks out the door with him and tries to figure out what it means.

Adrian takes her to Cuchillos’ place. Not the tattoo parlor. A normal looking house, the paintjob looking a few years old at most. Flowers and a green lawn, like they aren’t constantly supposed to be cutting back on water. They’re not in La Avenida, not in Freeridge. A little more residential than that. Not the hood, where the rest of them are trapped.

It smells like coffee inside. Cuchillos smiles when he sees them, in a white tank like he hasn’t gotten dressed yet. He says, his wife at the table with her own cup of coffee, “Mi amor, conoces a la mujer de Oscar?”

She smiles prettily. Offers them food and drink and to sit down, please. Claudia smiles like a grimace.

Cuchillos takes them to a back room, yellow, a picture of baby Jesus on the far wall. For a second, Claudia fears something worse than death. Then Cuchillos takes a seat and waits for her to do the same.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he says, “for bailing Spooky out in January.”

When she opens her mouth the words don’t come. She clears throat, once, twice. Says, “Pues. Yeah.”

He nods. She feels like a fool. “You taking care of Cesarito, I hear.”

“In the summer,” she says. She glances behind her, where Adrian is slouched against the doorway. She wonders if he’d let her walk out before the conversation finishes. Looking at Cuchillos, covered in tattoos, forty years old and still built like a brick house, she knows Adrian isn’t even needed for this conversation. She’s going to kill Oscar. She would have made herself hard to find, if he’d given her a heads up. No wonder he didn’t.

“Good,” he says. “I like you, Claudia. I think you’re good for Oscar.”

“Thank you,” she says. Like this is an interview. Like Oscar actually _needs_ the approval. Two and a half years and she knows less about this man than ever, despite the way he lingers like a shadow in every corner of the Diaz house.

“I just wanna make sure you don’t get caught up in nothing, mija,” he says, and he’s still smiling, but it feels impersonal.

Claudia watches as if from outside of her body, face carefully blank, fingers clenched over her knees. She’s in jeans and a tee. Hair still a little wet from her shower, lips chapped. What does he see, when he looks at her? What does anyone see?

“We won’t bring nobody over,” he says to her, his teeth very, very white against the warm brown of his skin, “me entiendes? Might drop things off in the garage. Ya tengo llave. You don’t gotta worry about nothing, alright?”

“Right,” she says, his pause made for her.

“Cesarito is still little,” he continues. “But you’re good with him, aren’t you?”

“I love Cesar.” The words taste mechanical. Gunmetal in her mouth, Cuchillos staring her down. A future Santo, they said. Just another body, maybe. “I just wanna do right by him. And—and Spooky.”

“Eres buena onda,” he says with approval. “I trust you. And I know you busy, mija. Adrian, la puedes llevar al trabajo?”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening up.

Claudia swallows, her stomach full of nothing but spit, now. She says, like her mother used to make her after a night at her comadres, “Thank you for having me.”

“Gracias a ti,” he says. Nods at Adrian. When he smiles it looks genuine again, “Señorita Ama. Good to see you,” and Claudia gets up and follows Adrian out of the house, hoping he can’t see how her hands shake.


	9. may, june, july.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where [un animal que ya no muerde](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041448) fits :(:

Cesar turns ten on a sunny day in May.

He doesn’t know, yet, that Oscar is going to be gone for a while. Oscar’s filled Claudia in, meaning she’s finally sat down and listened when he tries to tell her what’s going on. She spent so long walking out of rooms and crawling into bed and playing on her phone that it all hits her at once. All the little details. All the hard-to-swallow truths.

A real lawyer might have gotten him even less time, maybe had the charge dropped to a misdemeanor, but as it is, the guy’s a public defender. If they’re lucky it’ll add up to less than five years, so that’s all Claudia can bring herself to hope for. In the meantime, she smiles real big in any photos folks are taking at the local Chuck E. Cheese, Geny Martinez there with one hand curled protectively over little Ruby’s shoulder. Claudia feels for her; the woman is clearly two weeks overdue; last Claudia heard she’s having twins.

She touches her belly, briefly, just at the thought. Shakes her head when Oscar gives her a concerned look. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t quite count as a real adult yet, and she’s not looking to change that. Cesar’s other little friends are there, his usual crew and a good chunk of his fourth grade class.

It’s a good birthday, she thinks. Pizza and cake for the kids, Monty Finnie talking about wanting to take Monse on a trip one of these days, Oscar’s arm around her waist. At some point, when things are winding down, she puts her hand on his knee and says, unthinking, “I’m going to miss you so much.”

His fingers curl. Pressure against her lower back. “Don’t talk like that,” he says, quiet.

“I will,” she says, holding his gaze. “Cesar, too.”

“Todavía no sabe,” he says. “Today’s not—”

“Tomorrow, then,” she says. Waits until he nods, then kisses him, and when Cesar and his little friends start making noise about it she hugs Cesar close as payback. From the way he laughs, he doesn’t seem to mind.

The next day is a little different. Claudia’s been back for a week—moved out a little earlier than planned, but the circumstances were extenuating. Yoli got weepy and made her promise to come around during the summer. Claudia really wants to keep it.

 They’re running out of time, is the thing. Oscar’s last sentencing is barely a week away. After that, it’ll just be Claudia and Cesar for the summer. The kid needs some warning, even if Oscar clearly doesn’t want to disrupt his day to day.  Claudia told him he should have thought about that before he got arrested, and when they got into it that time Oscar just walked out the door. She was mad he left and glad he did; they feel complicated, lately.

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to get through this anymore. It comes in waves, this all-encompassing hopelessness. Five years if they’re lucky. She wants to hold onto him and push him away all at once, isn’t sure what will make any of this easier.

She’s been trying to figure out where her life is going for coming on a year now, and she knows even less than she did when she was still homeless. She hates to remember it, Oscar telling her she’ll always have him. That’s a lie, and she wants to call him out on it. But she doesn’t want to spend the last few days she’s got with him arguing, even if it settles under her skin sometimes. She’s still learning how to get through the days again. Still feels an undercurrent of sadness when she gets up in the morning and finds him and Cesar with their heads bent over the comics section.

The truth of the matter is this: Oscar is going to jail, and Claudia’s going to take care of Cesar for three months. Come August she leaves Freeridge behind—not forever. But she’s leaving it, anyway; there’s no way to spin this story any differently. She’ll be a four, five hour drive from Oscar any given day of the week. She’ll be starting all over in a new city. She hates the guilt that’s settled in her, all for getting into the program she wanted. San Diego is where she’s supposed to build a new home, but it burns, ugly, that there’s no way she and Oscar get to make that together.

Part of her isn’t quite sure she should even want that.

Oscar tells Cesar after dinner. It’s a weekend, at least, so it’s not like he’ll have to truck through school the next day feeling miserable. Claudia takes her time washing the dishes, that night, listens to the careful sounds of Oscar’s voice. She turns the water off when Cesar starts crying. Stares at the soapy water draining.

Cesar’s always had Oscar. From the moment he was born, Oscar’s told her, that kid has been his entire world. He was young enough during Oscar’s first arrest that it didn’t really matter; Oscar was charged with a felony but he didn’t have to serve any time. Claudia remembers yelling at him.

“Why don’t you ever _think_?” They were driving. They were always driving, back then. She’s never felt so stuck in her life as she does now, whispering arguments across the coffee table after Cesar’s gone to sleep. “Por Dios, Oscar, ain’t you thinking about anyone but yourself?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Oscar warned. Short-tempered with her for the first time—hell, it was their first fight. Santi stayed saying he was too soft with her, still does. Even before all the shit that went down in January. He’s kept his distance since then; Claudia wants to pretend it’ll last.

Oscar used to pick her up from her foster parents’ place every Saturday, used to pick her up from school during the week. Back then, seeing him was only ever a thrill. “You don’t know nothing ‘bout what I do.”

“You think I don’t? You think I’m _stupid_? Like my dad wasn’t doing the same shit before they deported him?” Claudia’s never going to know how to feel about her father. Gone before she was born, played her mother like a fool. She has one picture of him, throwing up signs, same mouth and nose as her. Sometimes she wants to know more. Sometimes, she wishes she knew less than nothing.

“Your dad was some ain’t shit salvatrucha, nena,” Oscar said, the light turning red. Her mouth dropped open. “So watch your fucking mouth.”

Oscar’s her first boyfriend. First man whose hands she’s wanted on her. She was sixteen when they started going out, but she wasn’t naïve. Had heard men say things like that and follow up with fists, had seen the way Leti Mata flinched, sometimes, when Santi raised his voice around her. She doesn’t know what kind of man her father might have been, but she was—and is—still pretty sure her mother wouldn’t have tolerated Claudia letting a man treat her like shit.

She said, “Chupá mi pito, pendejo,” and climbed out of the Impala. Someone behind them honked, and she flipped both cars off as she stalked back to her place. Mad like she’d never been before. He came by the next day like a kicked puppy, asked if she wanted to grab a bite to eat.

For the first time, Cesar’s cries still too-loud in the stillness of the Diaz home, Claudia wishes she said no.

* * *

The day of the sentencing, Cesar’s inconsolable. He cries all the way back to the house, Claudia white-knuckling the steering wheel because she doesn’t trust her hands not to shake. She gets it. Wants to sit down on the floor and just lose it, because not twenty four hours ago she had Oscar in her arms and she could pretend his dumbass jokes about Tijuana would actually work.

She knew it was coming. She’s been telling herself for weeks—months—that five years was what they should expect. Shit, it was what they should hope for. That’s nothing, she tells herself, especially if he keeps himself out of trouble. It could be four, easy. It could have been ten. It’s his second strike. Why would the judge cut him any slack? Why would anyone?

She sits Cesar on the couch and just holds him. Feels her shirt grow damp and stays blinking the tears away herself, rubbing his back and letting him cry himself out. He falls asleep before he finishes, and she pulls a blanket over him instead of waking him up. Goes into the kitchen and makes herself coffee, her trembling hands spilling sugar all over the counter. Grief rolls over her so suddenly she has to brace herself against the sink, breath rushing out of her like she’s been physically hit. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t a surprise. How the fuck is she supposed to go five years without Oscar?

“You’ll visit,” Oscar said the day before. She’ll visit, yeah—but what happens next summer? The summer after that? If he gets out in five, Cesar will be fifteen. If he behaves himself, fourteen. Four or five years isn’t that long, but—it is. Everything can change. Nothing has to stay the same if it doesn’t want to. Cesar’s too little for it to not matter.

Claudia at nineteen isn’t the same as she was at sixteen, when she and Oscar were just kids trying to fall in love. What’s she going to be like at twenty-three or twenty-four? Before the sentencing—before the arrest—Claudia had plans. She _has_ dreams. She’s going to go to Point Loma Nazarene and get her teaching degree and get the fuck out of Freeridge, one way or another. Oscar was supposed to come with. Or, well. She wanted him to. She wanted him out of Freeridge. And he is, now. Just not how she imagined. Not even how she feared, if she’s being honest.

She’s used to him being untouchable. Oscar, too. Maybe it was bound to end this way anyway, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Claudia’s all alone in this house that’s not hers with a kid that isn’t, either. As much as she loves Cesar, as much as she’d do anything to keep him safe, she has to be honest about it. At the end of the day this isn’t how she wanted her life to turn out. It hurts to think that this is all it’ll ever be.

Araceli was right. She was always right, and Claudia owes her an apology.

She doesn’t get the chance to see her until the next month, right before school lets out for Cesar. News of Oscar’s sentencing has set the Santos buzzing. It’s not like he’s just some muscle. Her man’s not just a cog in the machine. Makes her sick, now. Like a blessing and a curse, Oscar as smart as he is. He’s in jail, anyway. What’s the point.

Araceli’s mom opens the door, flinches when she sees her. Claudia’s used to it, says, “Hola doña. Está la Araceli?”

“Sí, mija,” she says, the word a clear lie on her mouth, and then yells, “Celi! Claudia te busca,” and tells her to wait.

Won’t even let Claudia inside her house. Like she’s too dark for them, maybe. Not the right kind of Spic. Claudia’s long learned that getting mad about it won’t lead anywhere, but she still wants to yell about it. That probably won’t help her with this whole apologizing business, though.

“Hey,” Araceli says when she comes out, “Christ, did she not invite you in? Come on, we’ll sit in the kitchen. She’s cleaning downstairs, anyway, they’re leaving for Mexico soon.”

“Yeah?” Claudia says. She feels on the verge of tears, suddenly, Araceli greeting her like it’s nothing, like they haven’t been in a stalemate since January, barely speaking. She’s been awful, she realizes. What the fuck has she been doing? “When?”

“Friday,” she says, “you hungry, girl? I just made tinga.”

“I’m good,” she says, then, “tenés agua?” and accepts the bottle she’s handed.

Araceli doesn’t let her stay quiet for long. “Chilango told me they gave Oscar five years,” she says, and Claudia immediately puts her head down on the table and starts to cry. “Shit.”

“Fuck,” she manages after several minutes of trying to get the words out, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Baby girl,” Araceli says, and sits down next to her, takes her hands in hers. Claudia sniffs.

“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to get her breathing under control, “I shoulda said that months ago, and I’m sorry for that too. You’re right.”

“About what?”

“This is all he’s gonna be, isn’t it?” she says. Pleads. Like she wants Araceli to lie to her.

She bites her lip. “Ay, nena…”

“I don’t wanna wait,” she admits, flinches. Looks away from Araceli so she doesn’t have to know what she thinks. “I don’t—four or five years, shit. That’s a long—I’m not. It’s not that I don’t—Oscar and me, I mean, lo amo, Celi, te lo juro, but—”

“You ain’t sign up for this,” Araceli says, soothing. “Not at first, right?”

“I don’t want nobody but him,” she says, “but how am I supposed to just. Keep living with him gone?”

“You don’t got a choice, honey,” she says. Squeezes Claudia’s hand, gets up to make them coffee. Everyone’s go to; normally Claudia would point it out, but it’s just sad. The rich smell of it spreads throughout the kitchen in no time, even if it’s just cheap Nescafé. Araceli leans against the counter, looks at Claudia real seriously. “Look. Do you wanna leave him?”

“No,” she says, immediate, “me and Oscar, we—that’s. That’s forever, girl. I don’t want nobody else, not now, not—” She cuts herself off. Looks up at Araceli. She feels wild, on the edge of something very deep.

“It’s okay,” Araceli says slowly, “to still. To still love him, you know. That doesn’t mean you gotta be happy about what’s happening.”

“I’m not.”

“Lo sé,” she says. Presses both hands to her face, roots grown all the way out and looking more ridiculous than she has in a minute. “You worried, right? About after?”

Claudia sniffs. Feels more tears spill down her face. “Yeah.”

“What about now? Qué quieres de él?”

Her voice cracks. The breath she takes _hurts_. “I don’t know.”

Araceli comes close. Claudia lets her wrap her arms around her. “Oh, honey,” she says against the top of Claudia’s head, and when she breathes, it rattles.

* * *

She doesn’t get to visit him until July. Takes Cesar with her, tries to smile best as she can, but it’s clear they’re both faking it. She wants to touch Oscar so badly it aches—just wants to hold his face in her hands and make sure he’s okay. He doesn’t look it, washed out underneath the lights and looking exhausted. She waits for him to say _I love you_ and he doesn’t, drives her and Cesar home feeling detached from everything, herself and Cesar and Oscar, especially.

Running into Cuchillos’ daughter the next day doesn’t do her any favors. She’s just graduated, she remembers, but she can’t help but gasp, the slightest bit, when Stephanie turns the corner in a pair of short-shorts and a tank, her lower lip split and swollen, a new ring in her eyebrow.

“A ver,” she says, when she catches sight of Claudia. She’s holding several packs of tortillas. A pink wristlet hangs off one wrist. She looks tired like Oscar did—like she’s seen too much and knows it. For once, Claudia almost feels sorry for her. “Figures you out here.”

“It’s the grocery store,” she says, flat. Curses every food desert in LA.

“You get your money back?” Stephanie says to her, and Claudia flinches. “Thought so.”

“Mind your business, niña,” Claudia snaps. She hates people knowing anything they don’t deserve. And she got her money back in June, anyway. “You don’t know shit.”

“’Course I do,” Stephanie says. Her lip is tender-looking. “You think I got this falling down?”

Claudia stares. Says, her voice hollow, “If your dad finally smacked you up you probably deserved it.”

When she laughs its humorless. “I shoulda listened to him,” she says, “shit, mejor que él me lo hiciera. Guerrero ain’t been around lately, huh. Acting like your man’s place has the plague.”

“Santi did that?”

“’S a pattern, right. Chilanga didn’t fuck her arm up by herself.” Stephanie looks too serious. Claudia doesn’t like it, clutches her basket of vegetables closer to her body. She’s got to get home and make dinner for her and Cesar. She doesn’t recognize Cuchillos’ oldest girl anymore. Maybe it scares her just a little bit. “Oscar ain’t no different.”

“No,” Claudia says, “that’s not true.”

Stephanie shrugs. When she speaks it’s monotone: “I remember his dad. Used to beat the shit out of all three of them. Maybe not his brother as much, pero ahí estaban. Spooky’s him, even if he don’t wanna be. He’s a Santo. What else is there.”

Claudia should leave. She should defend Oscar. She should tell Stephanie she needs some help that Claudia can’t give her. But Oscar is a lot of things. It pains her to admit that’s true. “He’s never—”

“Didn’t help Chilanga, did he,” she says. Claudia can see the faint signs of a hickey along her collarbone. Tries to remember how it felt, when Oscar did the same. “He’s gone, qué, four years? Five? He’ll come back and show you, you already know. Men like that…they all the same.”

Like she’s just figuring it out. Claudia’s spent at least three years trying to tell herself Oscar’s different, but she remembers that night, Leti’s bloody teeth. Remembers him telling her her father wasn’t shit, remembers how he learned to storm out of arguments and all the times he watched her with his eyes cold and empty. Her jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “You think I’m stupid enough to let him?”

Stephanie tilts her head. “You still his bitch,” she says, and Claudia doesn’t think twice before swinging.

She hasn’t been in a fight in a minute. Never liked it, hasn’t done it much—maybe twice, before this, assuming her punching out some white boy out doesn’t count. Stephanie’s the type of girl who has cat fights, though, and often. She’s all long nails and hair pulling. She gets a grip on Claudia’s braid and _yanks_. They go skidding, Claudia barely noticing the shouts that start up soon after. Nearest grocery store for miles and here she is, letting her produce and Stephanie’s tortilla packets scatter over the floor while she tries to get the fuck out of her grip.

But Claudia can fight dirty, too. Drags her nails—grown out for once, ain’t it funny, like a little piece of her mom _is_ still around—across Stephanie’s face and the girl _screams_. Then someone gets their arms around her waist and soon enough the fight’s over as fast as it started. Claudia’s hands are bloody and Stephanie’s got one over her eye.

“You _bitch_ ,” she says, and Claudia says, “Y qué?” the adrenaline rush giving her energy and cojones to front like any Santo punk. Maybe Oscar would be proud. Maybe he’d be pissed, Cuchillos’ daughter spitting mad like Claudia’s only heard about. Bad tempers, all them Santos. She knows that.

“See what I fucking do to you,” Stephanie says, blood smearing over her temple, bleeding from where that ring had once perched on an eyebrow, “you think you tough shit, huh, vas a ver—”

“Bye Stephanie,” Claudia says, over and over again, security dragging them towards opposite exits, moms covering their kids’ eyes and ears, shaking their heads like this is new to them. Like they’re ashamed. She calls out, “Nice seeing you!” and doesn’t even stumble when they throw her out the store. She thinks her father would be proud.


	10. august, september, october.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end!! thank u to all commenters / kudos-givers. i appreciate all of u dearly and am glad this story resonated with u 💛 the end excerpt is from the same poem as chapter one, [here are the songs i obsessively played while writing this](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4BxkHQb4r0jhojt2rpdSU0), y los quiero mucho :)

The summer Claudia met Oscar—again—was the one before freshman year of high school. She had been living with her latest foster parents (the third set in two years, the first two too crowded for her and her the latest to be shuffled off to someone else) since September. That December, she learned it _was,_ in fact, too good to be true, her foster mother’s brother eyeing her up in a way that she would soon realize was not abnormal to experience.

That didn’t make it okay, but it would take her a little longer to realize that.

Towards the end of summer, a little before the school year started, this brother would come to visit again, and Claudia—fourteen, still a little gangly, her hair past her waist because she didn’t want to ask for money for a haircut—wrapped herself in an oversized sweater she had inherited from her late mother and slipped from the house soon after her foster parents had gone to bed. She didn’t have anywhere to go. Or at least it felt that way.

She wandered Freeridge for a while, flinching when men—grown men, young men, kids her age or thereabout—called out to her. Over the last six months she’d come to no longer recognize herself in the mirror, seeing less of her mother and more of the father she had never met. Soon enough she found herself at the park, and it was there that she curled herself into as small a shape as she could manage, and settled in underneath a bench.

It wasn’t anywhere near the smartest thing she could have done, but Claudia tries to forgive herself for these mistakes. The big ones, the small ones, the ones that affect no one but her and the ones that matter to everyone. It’s a learning process. She was just a kid.

It’s not like she slept very well, anyway. Half-awake, mostly dozing, the sounds of the city never really gone even in the dead of night. She remembers it like it were a dream, the sound of Mexican Spanish—no voseo, not that she had anyone to use it with in Freeridge—and the smell of cigarettes and mota. Men’s voices. The sensation of moving from half-asleep to suddenly painfully awake. The way it made all the hair on her arms and neck stand, the way her muscles clenched in preparation of running.

She’d lived in Freeridge long enough to have some familiarity with the Santos. Knew they didn’t take too many Salvadorans, though that was probably because most of them were out in La Avenida or Pico Union, where she had once lived. She figured they were a little older than her, generally speaking, but something about one or two of them seemed vaguely familiar, even if she was curled up on the ground and far away enough that they hadn’t noticed her. Yet.

That familiar shape eventually broke off with another one of them, and when they came her way her whole body went stiff. Like something heavy had settled into every part of her, limbs suddenly heavy. Like dead weight could help her right now, two Santos—the outfit gave them away, really, Sureños not really running these parts—capable of who-knows what—

One of them stopped. Took a step towards the bench, where she had been hoping they’d miss her and continue on their way. He leaned down a little. His face wasn’t that of a stranger’s.

“What the…” the boy said. Claudia blinked.

The voice was mostly familiar. The name was on the tip of her tongue. She leaned up on her elbow, just a little bit, the ground cold even through the sweater and long-sleeved shirt she was wearing.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t I know you?”

“What?” she said, like _he_ was the one out of line. All things considered, they both were. One gangbanging, the other clearly impersonating a runaway. Claudia’s always been one to call Oscar out, though.

His homie laughed. “That how you talk to all the hynas, ese?”

He rolled his eyes, and that’s when Claudia remembered his name. That expression was one she saw often, or used to, at least. Oscar Diaz, his hair still curling over his ears like it had all through middle school. Dimple when he smiled, real good at language arts, that one year they had it together. Seventh grade, when she first moved to Freeridge. Spelling bee champ. She nearly cried over a bad test, that first quarter, and he quietly slipped her his own sheet so she could make corrections without having to talk to nobody. She was still new back then. She wondered if he remembered how he knew her.

He said, “Uh, Claudia, right? We go to school together.”

“Language arts,” she said, still curled into herself on the ground, even if she had one hand keeping her upright. She knew she could still run away, if she really needed to. Something about how Oscar looked at her, dark eyes worried, kept her from believing that was inevitable, though. “Seventh grade.”

“Yeah,” he said, flashing a smile, lightning quick. “I remember.”

They just looked at each other for a long moment. The other Santo said, not quite amused, “We heading out, homes?”

“Hold on,” he said, still watching Claudia. “Whatchu doing?”

“I was sleeping,” she deadpanned, and he blinked before grinning again, like he wasn’t expecting it.

“Yeah,” he said, “you comfortable though? It’s summer, ain’t no grass.”

“There’s never grass,” she said. Even now she can’t figure out what was happening that night. Oscar crouched down talking to her like it was a mostly normal occurrence, some girl he had class with over a year before sleeping in the park. Maybe it was. Maybe, like he always says, or used to say, before he got locked up, he just knew he’d found the best thing about Freeridge on accident.

“Yeah,” he said, and then, “want me to walk you home?”

Christ. Claudia has to laugh at herself. The two of them were obvious—and oblivious—from the get go. It hurts to remember.

His homie was probably laughing at that point, but all Claudia said was, “I’d rather sleep here,” and then Oscar was shrugging, pushing back to his feet to say something to the other Santo that was with him. He came right back, after, Claudia watching them the entire time, still not sure of what was going to happen, even if she wasn’t feeling all that worried anymore. There was still a little knot of anxiety in her stomach, but when Oscar came around to sit next to her—not really _under_ the bench anymore, considering she barely fit—it didn’t feel any worse. That meant a lot. She still thinks so.

“You just gonna chill, then?” he said, cross-legged across from where she had her knees pulled up. When she spared a glance backwards, she saw his homie walking off.

Claudia eyed him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “’S kinda late. Figured most folks was at home.”

“You’re out.”

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “You gonna spend the night here?”

She raised an eyebrow. Felt bold. “Where else?”

“You could stay with me,” he said, and then flinched. Both of her eyebrows went up, whole face scrunched like it was the worst idea she ever heard. Funny, later. “I—”

“Just ‘cause you know me,” she said, slowly, “don’t mean…”

“No,” he said, “that’s not what I—you shouldn’t stay out here alone. ‘S not safe.”

“It’s Freeridge,” she says, and cut her eyes to the side, “whatchu out doing this late, huh?”

“Nena,” he said, and when he smiled it wasn’t half as warm, “you don’t gotta worry about that.” When she said nothing, he continued. “C’mon. Ain’t too far from here. My mom won’t mind.”

Claudia found it comforting, at the time. Later she’d realize it didn’t mean much. “Ni me conocés.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, instead of pretending he didn’t know what she meant. “We had language arts together. You copied off one’a my tests.”

“You gave it to me,” she said, immediately, and he shrugged.

“Same shit,” he said, and climbed to his feet. Offered her his hand. “C’mon. My baby brother likes meeting people.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “just turned five, in May. He’s real cool. You coming?”

For whatever reason—premonition, clairvoyance, optimism—Claudia took Oscar’s hand that night. Let him convince her to crash in his room while he slept on the couch, spent most of the next day with him, wandering Freeridge to avoid her foster family and having a good time just kicking it. She only felt odd, face going hot, when some Santos came by, hooting about Little Diaz and his new hyna.

It was the start of something. Of everything, maybe. Claudia knows it doesn’t mean shit.

* * *

San Diego is not LA. Claudia knew that going into it, of course, but the point is driven home—over and over and over again—as soon as she gets down there. She’s trying to get used to the apartment she has, farther from campus than ideal but decent enough, fully furbished so she didn’t have to drag too much down with her on the bus. Her roommate is from Santa Cruz, a Gender and Women’s Studies major who tells her about their favorite spots in the city and invites her out with their group of friends regularly.

She’s doing everything right, she thinks. Goes to the student org fairs and talks to her classmates and doesn’t hide from her roommate after class. She does her readings and her assignments and then stays up half the night trying to convince herself she’s doing the right thing. She can’t get settled. Feels constantly on edge, like if she turns the wrong corner all of a sudden things will end.

She resents how much she misses Oscar. Her fingers twitch, like it hasn’t sunk in yet that he’s no longer a phone call away. Not in a way that really counts. Over the summer, it was hard to escape his lingering presence; she was living in his house, raising Cesar for him, Freeridge full of memories of him even outside of the Santos.

Maybe it’s all in her head, but it feels like she’s the only one trying to make it work. Their phone calls are full of silences, and she’s paying twenty-one cents a minute for it. There isn’t much to say, after all. She sends him letters and gets a paragraph or two back, signs them all _te quiero_ , _te extraño_ , and then rereads his responses obsessively, trying to find that same emotion. It’s not that she wants him to be miserable without her around. She just figured that he’d be thinking of her, too. Maybe _she’s_ the one fucking up.

“No sé,” Leti says over lunch, when Claudia’s in town to see Cesar. Adrian says he’s still taking him to see Oscar once a month, during one of the weekends that Claudia doesn’t make the excruciating trip north. He’s only allowed two visits a month; it works out just fine. “I ain’t date a dude in jail before.”

“Mm,” Claudia says, trying not to sound glum. She picks at her food. Tries to think of what to say, since it’s clear Leti doesn’t care too much to discuss her concerns about Oscar being in jail. She can’t blame her.

Leti props her head up on her fist. “Decíme. Whatchu doing up here so often?”

“Whatchu mean?”

Leti shrugs, says, “I get you coming up on weekends you drive up to Corcoran. But why you out here twice a month?”

Claudia blinks at her. “To see…everyone.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, taking a sip of her water. She clears her throat. Looks at Claudia like she knows all the answers; she doesn’t like it. “Claudia,” she says, and that’s how Claudia knows she’s not going to like what she says, either, “you need to let go.”

“What?”

“For fuck’s sake, all you do is hang around here toda miserable. Don’t you got shit to do for school?”

“You think I’m just gonna flunk out?”

“You too smart for that,” Leti sniffs, “sabés que eso no es lo que te estoy dicendo. I think you seeing shit you don’t wanna see, girl. You ignoring it now.”

“You can just tell me to stop hitting you up,” Claudia says, knowing that’s not what she means at all.

Leti rolls her eyes. “No seás dunda. ‘Course I miss you.” She fixes her with a severe look. “But I don’t have a problem _admitiéndolo_ , though. ‘S the issue, no?”

“Right,” Claudia says, and lets the subject drop. She hopes Araceli might have better advice for her.

Of course, she doesn’t even get the chance to ask the question, Araceli’s mom opening the door for her almost immediately after knocking and going, “Gracias a Dios, ayúdame por favor con esta pinche niña,” and dragging her inside before Claudia can offer her own greeting.

“Who you yelling at,” Araceli says, dull, in pajamas even though it’s after lunch already. She has hair dye in, and the Vaseline smeared over her ears and forehead glistens in the afternoon light. She looks surprised to see Claudia. “Claudia! You seeing Oscar this weekend?”

“No,” Claudia says, slowly, still trying to figure out Mrs. Herrera’s sudden willingness to have her in her house; she crashed with Yoli and Dulce, since they’re in the same apartment they were the year before, their third roommate some girl at UCLA and gone most days. “Came by to see how everyone was.”

Araceli nods, like it makes sense and isn’t a copout. Claudia doesn’t like how right Leti was, but it’s clear this isn’t the right time to bring it up, what with Mrs. Herrera still hovering in the kitchen with them. Araceli leans back in her seat, looking perfectly at ease.

“Pues?” Mrs. Herrera says, arms crossed, lips pursed, “Le vas a decir o qué?”

“Jesus Christ, Ma, at least offer her a seat.”

“No empieces con tus pendejadas, Araceli, que estoy hasta aquí—” she lifts a hand up to her eyebrow, expression outraged.

“Ya, okay, and?” Araceli snaps back, “How you think I feel, huh?”

“Quizá si hubieras pensado—”

“Okay,” she says, and when her mother keeps speaking, says it again, louder. “Can you go? I’m not telling her while you’re here yelling at me.”

Mrs. Herrera throws both hands up, stomps out of the room muttering, “Pinche desgraciada,” under her breath as she does so. Claudia knows her eyes are comically wide, but Araceli just shakes her head like her mom’s the one being ridiculous.

“Ignore her,” she says.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, and looks at her nails. Shrugs, a little bit, before biting her lip. “I’m, uh. I’m pregnant, ‘s all.”

“Oh shit,” Claudia says, words out before she can really think about it. Araceli smiles, a little grim.

“I know,” she says. “I dunno what she’s more mad about—that I got pregnant, or that it’s a Santo’s, or that Nando is Salvadoran.”

“Shit,” Claudia says again, and takes a seat next to her. Takes her hand in hers like Araceli did for her, all those months ago. “What’re you gonna do?”

Araceli bites her lip again. Says, voice low, “Nando went to buy a ring.”

“No way,” she says, looking Araceli over. She’s grinning now, a little pink, barely recognizable with the hair dye still working through her bleached locks. “You forreal?”

“Yeah,” she says, “we’ll probably just go to the courthouse sometime this week, but. We been looking at places, anyway. Was thinking of maybe getting outta Freeridge, you know.”

Claudia exhales. “That’s. Wow.”

“I know,” Araceli says, and when she smiles it’s so genuine that Claudia can’t help but grin right back.

* * *

Oscar breaks up with her in October. She took a bus from the border to LA, borrowed Leti’s car to make the three hour drive to Corcoran. When he says she should stop coming by she stares at him.

“What?”

He looks thinner than he did the month before. Ashen, underneath these lights. Tired. His grip on the phone is loose, like he doesn’t even have the energy for this conversation. But his eyes are bright as ever. Intense, even. He says, “You shouldn’t come by anymore.”

“What happened?” she says. She feels set aflame. Like something’s moving underneath her skin, or like she’ll disappear into nothing, every atom in her body suddenly vibrating.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just—I don’t need you, alright. You don’t gotta be out here all the time.”

“I’m here once a month,” she says. A little flat. Maybe angry. God, she wants to be angry. He doesn’t need her, huh. That’s a new one.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of something.

“What _happened_ ,” she says again, fingers clenched tight around the phone, her free hand pressing against the plexiglass separating them. Like maybe Oscar just isn’t seeing her right. “Last we talked—”

It was like any other time he called her. Stretched silences, each of them waiting for the other to admit what they were feeling. Whether it was missing each other, or being worried, or maybe even admitting that there was something curdling between them. Like the second the connection was made everything they could say to each other got lost. Claudia hated it. Still does.

“I remember,” he says. “And I still. You shouldn’t.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you over here no more.”

“ _Why_ ,” she says, the word spilling with no thought on her end. “Why, what happ—”

“Didn’t you have shit you want?” he says. He puts a little bit of a sneer into it. For a second she can’t even recognize him. “You had all them dreams, no? Getting outta Freeridge, going to school, making your mom proud. Where’d that go, huh? You up here once a month. You in LA doing the same shit you always was. What you missing in San Diego?”

“You.”

He stares at her. Says, like the words physically pain him, “You don’t have me anywhere, nena.”

She can feel the tears well up. She wants to figure out where it’s coming from—what did she say exactly, the last time she called? What did she write? Who’s been getting in his head since he’s gotten locked up? Claudia wants to accuse him. Wants to say he’s being crazy, and who is he to tell her what to do, anyway, but his eyes are real serious. He looks tired. He looks like he wants all of this to be over.

“I’ve only ever had you,” she says, voice thick with emotion. She’s going to start crying soon, and then it’s all over. Oscar’s never been good at dealing with her like this. His face transforms, just a little bit. Like he feels bad. Like it hurts him, too. “Nobody else. Just you.”

She remembers being twelve and in a new school and her mother in an unmarked grave. Oscar before he was Spooky, when the Santos were just a shadow he was still trying to outrun. Oscar, who didn’t call her a dirty Salvi or make fun of her for saying vos. A different man than the one across from her. Who said he loved her. Who tried to make himself a home for her. There’s a scream somewhere in her throat, thinking of who he was at fourteen and then sixteen and then eighteen, these years they’ve been in love and all the ways he’s disappointed her—and her, him—these past few months. She’s always had Oscar. She’s never known if it was a blessing or a curse.

“You gotta go,” he says, voice dull. Like she can’t hear the way it trembles, underneath this bullshit façade he’s putting up. Like they don’t know each other best, despite everything. Maybe _because_ of everything. She hates him suddenly, and fiercely, and so wholeheartedly that she can’t help herself. She never felt like she had to prove herself to him before. Maybe there’s a first time for everything.

“Everyone told me to just leave,” she says, “and I always said no, sabés? Always said you and me was forever. Didn’t matter how we did it, I always said we’d get outta Freeridge. Look at you. Corcoran ain’t that fucking different, I guess. Good enough for you, huh.”

Oscar opens his mouth. Says nothing, phone still loose in his grip. Eyes big and hurt.

“This is it, eh,” she says. “This is all I ever had, y pa’ qué.” When she laughs it hurts. She doesn’t know how to say goodbye. She swallows but says nothing else. Puts the phone down even as he says her name, walks out of there without looking back. All she had and for what. What part of that is she supposed to carry with her?

Maybe that’s the end of Freeridge for her. She stops by to see Cesar before catching her bus back to San Diego but when she shows up two weeks later, like she usually does, Adrian doesn’t let her in the house.

“Heard the news,” Adrian says, sounding bored. It’s not so late that the usual crowd of Santos is around. Inside, she hears the sound of some TV show. “Whatchu doing back in town?”

“Came by to see Araceli,” she says slowly. Keeps her arms wrapped around herself, her purse slung over one shoulder. She was going to take Cesar out for dinner. She was going to offer to pick some up for Adrian, too. “Figured I’d see Cesar, too.”

“For what,” he asks. Tilts his head. “Ain’t like you owe Oscar or nothing. Good thing y’all lasted through the summer, huh.” When he grins there are dimples. Claudia wishes she could throw a punch without him knocking her on her ass with less than half the effort.

Claudia can’t come up with a good response before he loses interest. He straightens up. Makes a show of locking the screen door.

“Good seeing you, Ama,” he says. Oscar carved it into a tree once, their initials neatly stacked. Adrian says it like a joke. Like she was almost someone’s mother. Just another broken promise. It burns.

But she tried, didn’t she? She tried, for Oscar and for Cesar and for herself, if she really admits it. Maybe she just didn’t do enough, Adrian shutting the door in her face and Freeridge like a wasteland behind her. For what? The question lingers. For a long time, all she remembers about LA is that feeling. The aloneness. The feeling of things ending. Just Claudia and a duffle bag and no one to tell her she was enough. Maybe she would have believed it. Maybe she wouldn’t have.

* * *

 i forget the reason, but i loved you once,  
remember?

maybe in this season, drunk  
and sentimental, i’m willing to admit  
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,  
ripe for anarchy, loves still.


End file.
